


are you leaving? are you home?

by todareistodo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-11 04:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: porto. it’s so simple, so easy. the perfect option, really, for a man like eric.eric's convinced a sea between them will make it easier for him to move on





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> title and lyrics at beginning and end from have we met before? by tom rosenthal, although not part of that series (in my head anyway, it could be if you'd rather)
> 
> this first chapter is set during this season

_Are you thinking?_

_Is she close?_

_Do you struggle with umbrellas?_

_Are you leaving?_

_Are you home?_

_Have you timed this badly?_

* * *

 

“This is bullshit.”

 

Everything aches. For months, everything has ached. Football is a lifetime signed up to ever present pain; it’s always underlying but it’s there, a dull throbbing of tired, protesting muscles that intensifies in areas tendered by injury. Eric’s never been naive, he understands it’s what he has to live with for the lifestyle he wants, the career he adores, but God, he’s tired of how much it hurts.

 

The physio gives him a disapproving glare for his language and kneads his fingertips into the muscle of, essentially, his arse. It’s centred around his hip, the constant burning, and he can feel it like a globe of fire sitting under his skin. Couple it with the irregular twinging he still gets along the scar marring his stomach, and the tightness in the muscles of his thigh that's played around on and off for years, and yeah, everything hurts.

 

“You won’t be out long.” The physio assures him when he’s pulled his hoodie and beanie back on, zipped himself back up and sighed. “Muscular strain, nothing too serious.”

 

Eric nods disjointedly, smiling half heartedly and nodding his thanks. He’s seen the physio room at Enfield more in the last few months than he has in 4 years at the club, although he’s chosen not to become too attached to any of the doctors. He’s pleasant, of course, polite and friendly but getting personal feels too much like an acceptance that he’s seeing the physios more than this teammates; friends.

 

Dele is sat in the canteen when he walks in, the only player around. Once upon a time, there’d be an empty plate next to him and the chair pulled out, all ready for Eric but now he’s hunched on himself, very obviously alone. Not expecting, or inviting Eric’s company. Eric chooses to ignore it and slides into the seat beside him anyway. He’s not hungry enough to make up a plate of food.

 

“What’s the damage, Diet?” Dele asks with a smirk, shovelling mango chunks into his mouth.

 

Eric sighs, covers it up with a gruff chuckle. “Muscular. Nothing serious, apparently. No worries.”

 

Dele nods, smiles at him brightly but impersonally. It doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t make them shiny and glinting. It’s just a flash of perfect white teeth that outwardly breeds happiness but Eric knows is routine and nothing more. His stomach hurts, a tangle of discomfort he’s not entirely sure is just leftover abdominal pain.

 

Eric contents himself with watching Dele for a while. He’ll never fully come to acceptance with how beautiful Dele is. He’s beautiful in ways Eric can’t even begin to explain, ways only he feels he can understand. It’s not just the brightness of his smile, or the warmth of his laugh when he really laughs; it’s the way he cares for people behind a mask of indifference and banter, works his entire life motivated by the desire to pay his family back, can be open as easily as he decides to close himself off. Eric’s spent too long acquainting himself with increasingly more romantic novels during his various recoveries. It makes him slightly sick how the evidence of that bubbles to the surface when he looks at Dele, holding his tongue.

 

“What you up to tonight?” Eric asks absently. He’d know, in the past, because Dele would tell him. He would’ve had Dele’s whole timetable pencilled into his brain, himself taking up hours of that schedule.

 

“Dunno, Kyle might be coming round.”

 

Eric nods, and doesn’t wait for a question in kind. Everyone else begins filtering in, Jan and Toby chuckling and chatting in rich Dutch, bypassing Dele and Eric sat in silence for a separate table. Winks grins breathlessly and collapses into a chair next to Dele, Sonny joining him on his other side. They’re chattering excitedly, Sonny laughing happily as Winks gets himself more and more worked up.

 

“When you back then, Eric?” Harry asks when he’s calmed down.

 

Dele looks up from his phone again, eyes narrowing on Eric like a challenge. Eric doesn’t know why.

 

“Week or so. Nothing bad.”

 

Winks smiles and lets out a little cheer that’d be sarcastic coming from anyone else. Eric grins, Dele’s derisive snort pulling down on his heart like a lead weight. These things never used to bother him, but now, they drain him as much as the strain in his thigh. He prides himself on having thick skin, on his mental resilience, but Eric feels like he’s taken a constant pummelling and now he’s bruised all over. Dele’s cold little reactions prod at each bruise with a sharpened nail.

 

Eric sits slouched on his sofa for empty minutes when he returns home. Clay whines and grunts for his attention, but he can’t bring himself to do anything other than pass a lazy hand over his head. Finally, staring at the clock on the wall and hearing it’s repetitive ticking drives him close to insane, so he turns the telly on. Continues to stare at the clock and continues to hear its ticking, even though it’s inaudible over whatever is currently on Channel 4. He imagines it anyway and feels himself go deaf with it.

 

The email sits in his inbox, hidden by others, buried under every surface Eric can manage. He scrolls through to find it sometimes, sits and reads it over and over. It’s succinct, so it’s hardly an achievement that he can now recite it word for word but he finds himself subconsciously rolling the words round in his head over and over. They started to lose meaning after the second week.

 

He finds it now, refusing to search for it in the bar, determined only to find it hidden as it is amongst brand deals and interview requests. It’s inconspicuous, and means nothing to look at now, but Eric still reads the words over and over. It’s been a month since he received it, a month since he knew it by heart, a month since he decided to put no thought to it. It’s also been a year since Eric decided he needed to change.

 

Porto. It’s so simple, so easy. The perfect option, really, for a man like Eric _._ A player like him. He’ll return home, to the way of life he’s always loved so much more than England, to people he believes _know_ him. To the language he’s proud to speak, and a team where he may be appreciated. Will get a fighting chance at a league title and will probably still face all the same players in the Champions League anyway.

 

He’s looked at the email so many times he can see the spacing imprinted on his eyelids when he closes them. Since the third week, every reread has been accompanied by gradual progress, starting with reading Porto articles and players’ social media’s. Today, he’s graduated to looking at flats in the centre of Porto, entertaining himself without thinking about what it all means, picking the most expensive flats and planning how he’d decorate them. He’s just decided he’d line the balcony with bright pink flowers when his phone pings against his thigh.

 

 **Dele** : kwp’s bitching. come round?

 

Eric swallows around the taste in his mouth, bitter hope he’s disgusted at. He stares at the clock again, watches the minute hand shudder as it moves around, before realising Dele will have seen he’s read his message. He doesn’t have time to watch the clock blur, when Dele will surely have moved on already, texted the next person in his contact list. Eric steels himself, bites his lip to tell himself to stop being so bloody dramatic and replies.

 

 **Eric** : Be 20 mins

 

 **Dele** : see ya

 

 

Dele’s fingers are drifting across Eric’s scalp, too-short nails scratching into the strands. He pulls his hand back to inspect the bluntness of his nails and then brings it back, smoothing his palm over the fuzz of it. Eric chuckles deep in his throat, feels the sofa vibrate with it where he’s pressed into the cushions. Dele smirks, that lazy glint in his eye before he turns away from Eric’s absentminded smile and back to the telly. They’re watching something pointless, all canned laughter and crude jokes that Dele loves. Eric is paying more attention to Dele’s hand as it squeezes gently at the skin at the back of his neck, stroking it again, squeezing it again. Eric is sure Dele’s forgotten he’s doing it. He smiles.

 

“What’s up with Kyle, then?” Eric asks to fill the silence.

 

Dele shoots him a sideways glance, surprised, as Eric expected, to see his hand still closed around Eric’s neck. “Dunno, whining about something. Wasn’t listening.”

 

Eric doesn’t push it, because he can’t say he cares and evidently Dele doesn’t either. If he could feel anything other than the closeness of Dele’s body, the warmth of his skin inches away, he thinks he’d feel some pleased hope that Dele picked him. He knows it’s really not as big a deal as his brain is creating, but he can’t quash the hopefulness sitting in his stomach.

 

“Nice to do this.” Eric mumbles. Dele’s resumed his massaging.

 

“Yeah.” He replies absently. “How’s Maria?”

 

Eric coughs to cover up the way his stomach tangles. He stares for a while at his trainers, the Nike hi-tops Dele despises but encouraged him to buy last year. Dele’s socked feet are tucked under his body.

 

“We split up ages ago, Del.”

 

Dele nods carelessly. His body is so close Eric can smell his aftershave but his edges are up, shaped away from Eric. An imitation of closeness that Eric knows really isn’t at all. A year ago, his feet would’ve been sprawled in Eric’s lap, giggling when Eric tickled them mercilessly, or he’d be tucked into Eric’s side. Eric would be playing with his hair, no stretch required. Dele’s outstretched arm to tickle at his nape covers miles.

 

Dele knows they split up. Eric knows Dele knows because he was most of the reason. He was the catalyst, the spiralling ball of disaster Eric let completely dominate, stream roll through everything and Dele knows all that. Dele knows everything, where Eric feels he never knew anything, and he still acts like he doesn’t. Eric wonders if it’s just to watch him squirm.

 

“Found anyone else?”

 

Eric pulls away a little from his palm still clasping the base of his scalp. He shrugs, tries to make himself laugh at the programme on telly. He considers asking if they can play a video game, or pool. Something that takes up their focus.

 

“Nah.”

 

Dele nods again, fiddling with the thread on one of his cushions.

 

“You?”

 

Dele shrugs. “No one permanent.”

 

Which Eric translates as he’s shagging around, probably bragging about it to Kyle and Harry and all his friends Eric never really got a chance to get along with. He wants to growl in frustration, pull at Dele until he falls against his shoulder, lies against him like he used to, head safe in the dip of his collarbone. Loved permanently.

 

*

_Dele kisses like he’s got a point to prove, which Eric has always accepted because Dele feels he does have a point to prove, constantly. Even if he won the Ballon d’Or and had a commemorative statue erected in his honour, he’d still be desperate to prove the world wrong. Eric is convinced of this as Dele’s lips crush against his with impressive determination, firm and purposeful until he pulls back for breath - eyes so bright Eric can’t look in them - and launches back in, suddenly sloppy and full of tongue and so dirty Eric feels a bit lightheaded._

_Dele’s sharp, short nails are suddenly curled into his t-shirt, scraping harshly against his torso and he whines, a needy impatient keen that kickstarts Eric into action. It’s a balancing act, an experiment to see what’s enough and what’s too much, what makes Dele desperate for more and what makes him shiver away. When Eric nips the chapped skin of Dele’s bottom lip with complete precision, teeth digging under into the tender, stinging flesh below, Dele’s mouth tastes tangy and metallic and Eric balks, suddenly terrified but Dele just moans; Eric can feel it through his whole body._

_Dele’s heaving for breath when they part, chest rising and falling, eyes blown so wide Eric fears for his eyesight. He tongues gently at the little cut Eric made with his teeth and lets out this ridiculous giggle through closed lips. Eric wants to kiss him for the sound, so sweet it makes his toes curl so he does, Dele letting him steal a kiss that’s only pressed lips and pretty but just for the way Dele’s breath stutters, Eric licks along his lip, that same metal coating his tongue. He’s fighting for breath, too._

_“You should use lip balm.” Eric tells him, surprised by how even his voice is when he feels like his lungs have collapsed._

_“Yes, Mum.” Dele sing-songs, fingers digging bone deep into Eric’s wrist to pull him into his bedroom._

_Dele rests against his chest afterwards, typing furiously on his phone. Eric doesn’t even try to read his messages, doesn’t want to. He feels boneless, delirious. Dele’s weight is so sure and definite, his little giggles sending goosebumps over Eric’s skin. He drops his phone on Eric’s stomach once he’s fed up, movement making a funny_ plop _sound that tickles a snigger out of them both. Dele rests his chin on his palms clasped over Eric’s ribcage, staring at him through spiderweb eyelashes._

_“Weirdo.” He says affectionately._

*

 

Rehabilitation is a constant uphill battle Eric’s exhausted of. He knows there’s no escape, lest he retire, and retirement at 25 is definitely pathetic he decides. He knows Dele would agree, with an incredulous shake of his head and eyes rolled. It’s not that Eric wants to retire, he’s not stupid enough to think it’s the only solution, not broken enough to think it’s what will make him happy. He’s just tired.

 

Winks’ groin injury has improved enough for him to smile and wave at Eric as he trots out with the rest of the squad, leaving Eric alone again. He’s grown used to it, others dip in and out as Tottenham’s injury crisis recovers and worsens, but it’s still lonely. Everyone is nice, of course, friendly and genuine and kind but no specialist banters him about his clothes, no physio shoulders into him and grins at the disgust on his face.

 

Eric misses it, so much it burns sometimes. He misses Tottenham. He thinks about Porto, sees the email and sighs. It feels like betrayal, like treason against the club that gave him so much; happiness and opportunity and a family. Eric wonders if it’s still a betrayal when the club is turning its back on him too. It hurts so much more to understand it’s mutual.

 

“How bad is it?” James asks when Eric goes around to his friend’s house after training, skin still a little pink from how thoroughly he washed himself in the showers. He smells of Dele’s aftershave because he forget his own. He’s reminded of it every time he moves, gentle wafts of it setting him on edge.

 

“Not too bad. Few weeks.”

 

James nods and sets a mug in front of him, conversation already speeding on, away. Eric wonders if his friends can see it’s a difficult topic right now, or maybe it’s always been treated this way. He decides not to think about it, and instead focuses his attention on James’ little girl, Lottie, bouncing on his knee. She’s got four fingers shoved in her mouth, thumb edging in before James realises and pulls her fist away with a chuckle and a gentle scolding. Eric laughs too, strokes her curls behind her ear and listens very seriously as she details her day at school.

 

“I drew a dragon! D’you wanna see?” She asks excitedly, talking so quickly Eric can’t quite keep up but he nods enthusiastically and stares at the drawing, resemblance more of a hippo than a dragon, ruffles Lottie’s hair and says it’s amazing. He imagines Dele’s smirk and, unbidden, the way he holds Molly’s kid tight to his chest. His own chest clenches.

 

Once Lottie’s calmed down and been plopped in front of the telly, immersed in Cbeebies and chewing on the end of a crayon that’s crumbling in her teeth, James touches his arm cautiously and Eric knows he’s in trouble. He sighs as he sits back down, gazes unseeingly at the wood of his table and considers what else he can say to fill the gaps before James opens something else entirely, something he doesn’t want to think about.

 

“How’s Dele?” James asks anyway, voice careful but insistent.

 

Eric nods vigorously and threads his hands round the mug. He coughs, cringes at the sound and clears his throat again.

 

“Good, I think. I saw him last night.”

 

James nods, inviting him to continue and Eric sighs. He toes the floor and leans his head back with a groan.

 

“He’s good. We don’t talk much anymore.”

 

It’s hardly the first time he’s admitted it, closer to the fiftieth, but every time it slits his heart like a twisting dagger stabbed through the centre. He feels himself bleeding out, and drinks as much tea as he can to ignore it, and hide himself from James’ pitying eyes.

 

“Maybe it’s time for you to move on.” James says vaguely, ambiguously, line regurgitated from his wife most likely and spluttered out in front of Eric. His throat goes dry regardless, guilt clinching him because he is moving on, potentially; ridiculously. It would be the perfect opportunity, a gentle erring before he could finally tell someone what he recites to himself in the shower. The weight of those lines would settle a little on someone else instead of lying like lead in him.

 

_I think I am moving. Properly._

 

“I’ve been trying, mate.” He says instead, which is probably even truer.

 

*

_“You ever gonna move away?” Dele asks, hands hooked under his chin, entirely in Eric’s personal space even though they’re not touching, and are separated by a plane seat. It’s the intensity of his stare that makes Eric feel forever invaded upon._

_Eric ponders the question for a moment. He considers a life outside of London; maybe in Manchester, Marcus and Jesse replacing Dele and Winks, navy swapped for scarlet. It doesn’t seem so bad in the simulation he creates, except he’ll have to stare at Dele and force himself to beat him, tackle him and hurt him and watch him lose. He considers a life without Dele and it looks a lot different._

_“Not unless I’m forced out!” He jokes instead, puffing his chest out and delighting in Dele’s shrill giggle. Dele nods once he’s calmed down, obviously pleased with Eric’s answer._

_“Better watch your back then. Poch is on to you.”_

_Eric laughs along, shoves Dele about and laughs again, but he’s under no illusion. Dele’s destined for the history books, whereas Eric will fade into obscurity, retirement spent watching Dele win awards and create scents and model underwear. Dele may love Tottenham, and Eric has no doubts that he adores it with all his heart, but he deserves more and everyone knows it. Eric can’t ever imagine leaving Dele but he knows he’s going to get left behind_.

 

*

Eric’s walking Clay through a nameless field, full of rapeseed flowers that make his nose itch and clumps of daisies Cisco loved to dig up and nibble at, even though he always spat them straight back out. Eric smiles bittersweet remembering, stroking along Clay's back a few times just to remind himself of what he still has before he gets too choked up. He’s listening to Portuguese music, because it makes him happy, and there’s this little quiet buzz in his stomach that’s a welcome change from the cloying discomfort.

 

He considers again, staring at this empty expanse of English grass that he couldn’t find anywhere else, how everything would change. The technicalities, of course, would take time and tact; telling Poch, requesting the transfer, paperwork and sums of money that shouldn’t dictate his value of himself, but he knows will.

 

But once he’s put down the pen after scribbling his signature, everything else starts. The phone calls to his family, his parents; the anxious brushing up on his Portuguese, like he isn’t perfectly fluent; the flat-searching and flight-booking and furniture-buying; announcing it to the squad, in the changing room after practice like he’s telling everyone what he’s having for dinner.

 

Telling Dele.

 

It’s what scares him the most, not because he feels Dele will be hurt or offended, but because he fears Dele will be neither. He’s convinced Dele will give an obligatory nod of the head, banter it off because he _doesn’t_ care. Miss him just like Winks misses him, or Kane. Miss him like a teammate should, where they’ll send each other odd Whatsapp messages after good results or damning defeats, slander each other a little. Miss him like he could happily live without him, and will do, when Eric leaves.

 

“Selfish, innit?” Eric mutters to Clay, who’s pawing around by his feet.

 

Eric wants Dele to miss him so much he’ll beg him to stay and he thinks that’s the most selfish desire he’s ever had.

 

 

“Bet you’re buzzing, Eric!” Winks exclaims excitedly.

 

“Huh?” Eric murmurs dumbly.

 

They’re all gathered in the canteen for lunch, plates pilled to varying degrees. Eriksen is nibbling at a plate of carrot and plain chicken, next to Winks plowing through a massive plate of pasta. Dele’s elbow is brushing against Eric’s every time he moves, the sharp bone digging into Eric’s bicep. It’s the irritating, repetitive friction Eric wants to tell him to stop but he can’t be bothered getting grumpy for little reason. He’ll build a reputation.

 

“Nations League, innit!” Winks enthuses. “Portugal.”

 

Eric just catches Dele’s smirk from the corner of his eye but he smiles himself, a little happy smile that forces his eyes to look at his plate. Dele’s knife-sharp elbow is pressed right into the crook of Eric’s arm now, definitely deliberate. He grinds it in a little more, and Eric retaliates by shoving a foot against Dele’s toes. Dele howls.

 

“Don’t you dare injure me because you’re bitter!” He wails, elbow now battering into Eric’s chest.

 

Eric rolls his eyes but can’t keep the grin from his face. “I’d rather stay in rehab alone than have you.”

 

Dele sticks his tongue out, and when it disappears back behind the seam of his lips, his elbow leaves Eric too. Eric feels strangely out of breath, now, lungs pushing out breath harshly to keep up with his breathy chuckles. Winks is staring at them both, exasperatedly-offendedly-amused.

 

“I apologise, Winksy.” Eric says sombrely. “Yeah. It’ll be nice for you lot to see Portugal.”

 

Winks nods to himself, staring Dele down before loading a mountain of pasta on his fork. Dele rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. His studs are resting on the toe of Eric’s trainers. Eric’s not sure when they got so close, and he’s surprised he didn’t notice sooner.

 

“We’ve already been to Portugal, though, haven’t we?” Dele says quietly. Eric nods slightly, Winks beaming and enthusiastically agreeing. It makes Eric smile. He hasn’t got a clue.

 

*

_“I see why you like it so much.” Dele relents, tracing words and scribbles along Eric’s biceps._

_The room is cool and bright, linen curtains billowing in the steady breeze. Sunlight streams through the open glass doors, white sheets crumpled around their bodies. Dele’s skin is warm and soft, sunkissed, a little sweaty pressed into the cradle of Eric’s body. There’s a creamy swipe of forgotten sun cream on his shoulder blade that makes Eric’s heart ache. He rubs it in quickly, kissing the skin afterwards even though it only tastes of warmth and sunscreen._

_It’s mid afternoon, sun high and beating in the sky and everything lazy and sluggish. Dele’s mouth is open against Eric’s chest where his head’s rested on his shoulder, bodies liquid after slow sex that made Eric’s blood tingle. Dele surprises him endlessly; he expected Dele to want it all, fast and hard and messy every time, but he’d been teased until he was continuously groaning before Dele took pity. It was patience like he’s never seen before._

_“Nice, innit.” Eric says quietly to the ceiling, stifling a yawn._

_Dele hums and burrows further into Eric’s arm slung around him, kissing the skin lightly, more a lazy press of his open mouth than anything else._

*

 

Life passes in this blur of defeats and victories and disappointments Eric feels like background letdowns. He's not on the pitch to feel the final whistle damning them to their Champions League semi-final defeat, nor is he in the dressing room when Tottenham, miraculously, scrap third place. It's injury after niggling injury, until 2 weeks before the end of the season, when he can feel the twinging has finally died down and he knows physio will happily clear him, when he's over the moon he gets another bout of flu. It would be an embarrassment to try again anymore this season. Eric wants to begin fresh, legs buzzing to move and lungs brimming with the adrenaline.  

 

Dele stares at him across his kitchen table a week before the end of the season, eyes heavy with the effort of dragging everything through the season, mouth tilted in a funny little smirk.

 

"D'you even _wanna_ play football anymore, Diet?"

 

Eric swallows audibly and feigns taking offensive. "Of course I fucking do! I didn't ask to get the bloody flu."

 

"It's a head cold, Eric." Dele taunts but there's little mirth in it. He sounds frustrated, and tired. Eric knows he's only adding to it.

 

"Del, medical didn't clear me and there's nothing I can do." Eric rationalises, because its true that there's very little he can do to change it, but he still feels that twist of guilt because he was asking for it, maybe. He can't say the ache settling in his throat didn't send a tingle of relief through him. Getting to start afresh is all just part of the plan. Eric's plan to move on and, God, he's desperate for Dele to see that and let him.

 

But, of course, Dele still doesn't know about this grand plan or Eric's desperation. He just sees Eric shirking his responsibility, dipping through every loophole to ensure he doesn't even get a place on the bench. He wonders, suddenly, what Dele thinks of him now. Months of obsessing over how his feelings towards Dele have changed and Eric's barely kept a passing thought for the way Dele might view him. It hurts, imagining all the potential, when none of it seems good.

 

"Better hope your flu clears up for end-of-season celebrations, I guess." Dele mutters, voice small and bitter, employed just because he knows how guilty it makes Eric ache.

 

 

Watching Dele get progressively drunker used to be Eric's marker for the night, watching for the telltale signs that meant he had to look after him, take him away with a glass of water and a few paracetamol, or when his hands would get too grabby and needy on people that aren't his and Eric has to remind what _is,_ slow and hard until he was whining.

 

Now, Eric is definitely drunker than Dele, and watching Dele wrap himself around people anyway. His head's pounding, tongue fat and too-big for his mouth as he forces his eyes to focus on Dele. It bangs against the front of his skull, concentrating, aches right behind his eyebrows and coats his throat sickly, but he has to watch.

 

Dele's grinding slowly against a man all rippling muscle and glaring fake tan. He looks more like an Only Way Is Essex member than Dele's type, but Eric can see how it's getting him off anyway. His hips are moving perfectly in time to the rhythm, for someone with shocking dance skills, his neck loose and rolling onto the man's shoulder. Eyes closed, lashes fluttering, drunk enough not to care about the mess he's making that'll splash across newspapers the next day. The man is muttering into his ear, lips pressing against his neck, cheekbones, forehead. His teeth are too white.

 

"Bit of a mess, innit?" Winks slurs, wrapping his arms around himself and swaying gently.

 

Eric hums, feeling how it burns his throat already raw with how much vodka he's been practically guzzling. "Yeah." He sighs and turns away from the glare of the man's teeth as he nibbles at Dele's neck. "Yeah."

 

Winks nods disjointedly and burrows a little into Eric's side, 3 AM obviously taking him by surprise. Eric's surprised he's lasted this long, normally one to drink himself sick within the hour or wander off with another reality TV girl just as fake as the man grinding his cock into Dele's hip. It's just the three of them left, as it always has been, and Eric always thought would be.

 

"Winks." Eric yells over the music, snapping a clumsy finger in front of his eyes to catch his hazy attention. "Winks?!"

 

Winks nods again, dazedly, fingers slipping on the drink still sitting in his palm. Eric can't find the coordination or common sense to take it away before disaster strikes, brain capable of only one thing at a time.

 

"Eric, yeah. What?" He slurs hoarsely.

 

Eric collects his thoughts and shifts the bulk of his body away from the dancefloor, away from the grip the man now has around Dele's wrist, hand now tight around his waist.

 

"Tottenham - Spurs for life? For you, innit."

 

Winks beams at the mention of their club, disorientated focus still highlighting what he obviously cares about the most and that makes Eric smile himself, his reaction the best answer all on its own.

 

"Yeah, mate, yeah. Tottenham til I die." Harry nods determinedly, eyes suddenly clear and its all so hyperbolic and blockbluster-film, but Eric knows how much he means it. Eric's not sure he feels so strongly about anywhere, caught between places so he never really knows just one as his own. He wonders what it feels like to have Winks' attachment but that makes his head feel like it's splitting in half so he whines and decides he needs to sleep _now_. 

 

Eric watches the hand gripped tight around Dele's wrist yank him away, knowing with a sick sense of satisfaction just how blistering Dele's shame will be in the morning. His eyes will be cold and harsh, words blunt and cruel. Exactly what the man deserves for his trouble, Eric thinks maliciously as he falls asleep in the centre of his bed fully clothed and drooling.

 

*

_His body wakes up before his eyes, tingling pain integral. His arm is numb from where it’s curled under his body, feet too hot tangled in the duvet cover. He doesn’t see black so the curtains must be open, the patter of rain against the window pane rhythmic and lulling. Eric wants to check for sure, see the colour of the sky for himself but his eyes flicker open, heavy and difficult and he’s met with another._

_Dele’s staring at him, eyes blank, brightness dulled like gloss paint peeling. They’re touching, just barely, knees at the perfect angle to rub uncomfortably when Dele shifts away, sheepish at being caught. His skin is bitten in places, just barely, only so Eric can notice but he doesn’t share anymore, body held rigid and personal. None of that spiralling lack of spacial awareness; an almost painful comprehension of it instead._

_Eric wants to feel Dele sprawled across him, warm skin and hair in his mouth, knife-edge bones dug into his stomach. He wants everything he could be annoyed about, complain about half-heartedly until Dele would crack and giggle until Eric shushed him enough times to give himself a headache. He doesn’t want this shame, the guilt he can feel radiating off Dele like he’d look Eric in the eyes and admit he regrets it, that it hurts, he doesn’t like men, why on earth would Eric even lead him astray for a night._

_He wishes he could feel ashamed, but Eric just feels hurt. He misses the heat of Dele’s skin, can barely remember how it felt against his because good Lord, they were drunk. He wants to go back to the first time he woke up to Dele curled around him, naive, unsure and totally obsessed with Dele but blissfully unaware of it. Allowed to live it through that bubbling happiness when Dele did well, when he managed to make him laugh. Now, he’s got to claw back a best friend and a one-night-stand. The space between them seems monumental and freezing cold. Eric really misses how sharp Dele’s ankles are._

_“We don’t have to talk about it.” Eric mutters because the silence is stretching endless._

_Dele nods jerkily, eyelashes up to the ceiling, “Yeah. That’s what we’re gonna do.”_

*

 

Eric despises himself for the cliché of it, but he wakes up in the morning with nausea wedged in his throat, and a heavy sense of resignation. The flash of Dele's eyes in his direction as he got jerked away by a man bigger and faker and trashier than Eric, the winding bitterness in his voice when he questioned Eric. This isn't his place anymore, it doesn't make him happy like it did, doesn't make his heart soar or his eyes bright like it does for Winks. Things are changing and Eric doesn't feel like he's changing with it. Surely that feeling, if anything, is all the proof he needs that it's time to move on.

 

He sighs just a little understanding it, eyes stinging a little with a goodbye he never considered he'd be the one to give. Clay whines where he's lying in the crumpled covers, Eric too tired to even bother shooing him away. His phone is flashing on his bedside table with the alarm, notifications piled up underneath it. A text from Winks asking, in drunken code, if he got home safe and random spamming from team group chats. His stomach drops even further as he imagines breaking the news, the end of the season making it near impossible for him to tell everyone in person, but the idea of announcing it in the group chat in a few short texted words seems ugly and impersonal.

 

"Hiya." Eric says quietly, voice gravely with his hangover. He didn't think to check what time it is in China.

 

"Eric?" Mousa asks smoothly. "How are you?"

 

Eric swallows, coughs, feels his throat tighten up a little thinking about how much he does miss Mousa. It's hard to realise these things until its thrust in your face. It makes him falter for a second.

 

"I'm alright, mate, bit hungover. How are you?"

 

Mousa hums and gives him a quick rundown, no-nonsense and matter-of-fact. Eric finds himself nodding along, intercepting every now and again with little questions, drawn into the comforting lull of just talking to someone. He forgets to ask what time it is, or whether he's interrupting on something, because he wants to cling onto it.

 

"What were you calling for?" Mousa suddenly asks, blunt and frank enough Eric snorts a little.

 

"When you chose to leave, how did you tell everyone?"

 

There's a few minutes of empty, buzzing silence that makes Eric feel sick again. He knows Mousa told them in the changing room after training, but he and Mousa both know everyone really means the people that really matter.

 

"I'd told Jan before, that I was thinking about it. I just told him a few days before the rest of you, but he knew for as long as I did, really." Mousa tells him. "Where are you thinking of?"

 

Eric strokes a lazy hand across Clay's head, scratching behind his ears. "Porto."

 

Mousa hums affirmatively, obviously understanding the choice and that makes Eric smile a little. It's nice talking to someone intuitive enough to read between the lines; nice just to talk to anyone and unload it a little, lessen the weight of it. Eric feels guilty knowing that he can't do it the same as Mousa did. He's going it alone, Dele with no clue, and it's not like they're close enough anymore for him to have been part of the decision from the start. Not that he isn't, without knowing it.

 

"Thanks, Mous." Eric says quietly, gratefully. His throat feels tight again.

 

"You're welcome." He replies, voice smooth. "See you, Eric."

 

Eric has to breathe harshly through his nose and scrunch his eyes up tight, concentrating on the gentle snuffling of Clay, to keep himself from crying when he hangs up.

 

 

 

Tottenham are asking for £50 million. Porto are attempting to bargain. Eric has to watch this all helplessly and there's nothing he can do to change it. It's strange having a price tag attached to you, all wrapped up and shiny like a product to sell. Eric's not sure how anyone can possibly value him when he's barely played in months, so he's frankly pleasantly surprised by his transfer fee.

 

Poch's eyebrows are crooked concernedly as always when Eric plucks up the courage to inform him. He nods, expression the same as always which does very little to settle Eric's nerves, just nods and nods until he finally says, shortly; "Is okay." Eric wonders if maybe he was wanting someone to stop him, because the lack of obstacles only makes the pit of his stomach feel ever more hollow.

 

Negotiations are ongoing, months until transfer window for them to properly finalise so Eric allows himself to relax and breathe, focus on the next steps in his determination to do this all properly. He's hurting himself in the process, but he doesn't want to anyone else, and he knows the harm he's doing is only going to make him happier in the future, hopefully. It's what he tells himself staring into the mirror and imagining Porto on his chest where it used to be Spurs.

 

Nations League catches up to him, shocks him like a tap on the shoulder in the dark. He can't understand for any length of time why he even got a call up, his playing time this season ridiculously low. He hasn't played a game for Spurs in months, and Gareth is smiling at him and considering him for the line-up against the Netherlands. He's angrier than he thought possible at getting the chance where he doesn't think he deserves it.

 

He turns up to St. George's Park alone, already dreading how infuriating Trent's bragging will be when the Liverpool lads arrive late, having won the fucking Champions League. He scolds himself for being bitter, especially when he greets all the boys again and remembers how genuine his love and happiness is for England and his teammates. They make him laugh so easily he forgets why he hasn't been laughing much in the first place. It's all grins and laughter and Eric wonders how on earth they all got so lucky to have a national team like this.

 

"Nervous?" Dele asks, curled up on the settee by the pool tables as Jesse and Marcus are locked in a game of Killer with Stones and Walker. Eric just catches a threat of throttling, followed up by Jesse's howl of disbelief. They fly out to Portugal in the morning.

 

"Of course."

 

Dele nods. "We've got it in the bag." His voice radiates confidence and leaves no room for argument. Eric, despite himself, finds himself believing him.

 

"Wanna play pool?" He chances, and definitely doesn't feel his heart leap into his throat as Dele turns towards him and _beams_ , nodding.

 

They drag Winks and Chilwell into it, Raz sprawled across a chair and doggedly attempting to distract them, but Dele is impressively good at pool and they win easily, Dele lifting the cue above his head and pumping it like he would a trophy. Winks giggles and Marcus shouts that that'll be the Nations League cup on Sunday. Eric smiles so wide it hurts his cheeks, for the first time in months. 

 

 

He is, blessedly, on the bench for the semi-final, Hendo and Winks flanking Dele working as an attacking midfielder. Eric feels his blood fizz with pride watching Winks work methodically and consistently, as is his style, knowing he's grinning every step of the way. Winks' enthusiasm makes him feel excited about football in a way he's not sure he'd be able to feel otherwise, at the moment. They manage to clinch the win, with a Sterling tap-in in the 92nd minute to make it 2-1 and whisk them into the final.

 

Dele is bubbling by the time Eric gets to him, grinning and sweaty and so so happy Eric can feel it radiating off him in waves. He launches himself at Eric, envelops him in a hug that rattles through his bones, head tucked into Eric's shoulder, arms tight and warm around his waist. Eric thinks he could cry, can feel the sobs gathering at the back of his throat. He wonders if it's supposed to stop hurting and he wonders if he really should move away and he wonders if Dele still loves him.

 

"We're gonna do it, Eric." Dele mutters into Eric's collarbone and then he peels himself away to shout. "We're gonna fucking do it!"

 

The changing room erupts, screaming and laughing and so many smiles Eric feels dizzy with it. There's nothing more innocent than their happiness right now, and Eric's having to brush the back of a rough hand against his cheeks to wipe away the few tears that spilt. They dry on his skin and make it feel tight, but he's smiling too, cannot fucking stop it.

 

 

"Speak Portuguese!" Sancho is demanding as they travel back to their hotel, bus vibrating with the heavy bass of whatever song is playing through Jesse's state-of-the-art, _very fucking expensive, so keep your hands off Pickford_ speaker _._ Everyone nods eagerly in agreement; Eric's just surprised it's taken this long.

 

_"Inglaterra vitoriará a Liga das Nações."_

 

Cheers and clapping and jeering meets his words, stamping feet and Winks even raises his eyebrows impressed and claps him on the back, which makes Eric laugh again at his ridiculous earnestness. Dele stares at him darkly from the seat opposite, feet resting on Eric's toes again, one eyebrow raised neatly. He's smirking, just barely and Eric can't help but smile back sheepishly.

 

*

_His muscles are tight, neck strained from it’s funny position against the headboard. The curtains are open, sunlight streaming in and reflecting golden. Eric can feel the heat through the window pane, see the expanse of clear blue sky empty and so un-English, lighting up the ruffles in his bedding and Dele curled up beside him, catlike and snuffling._

_Eric watches him carefully, breathing slow and steady, scared to even move, spine aching dangerously in its odd angle but he fears one clumsy movement or heaving sigh will shake Dele awake. He wants to watch just a little longer, the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks, lips parted just barely against the material of his hoodie pulled up in protection._

_They’re not touching, safely inches apart, separate entities who barely know each other and yet, Eric can’t stop staring at the spread of lashes across clear skin. The dogs whimper suddenly, demanding, and Dele flutters awake all at once, a catalogue of movements that knock him breathless until he’s stumbling off the mattress in a bundle of exhausted impatience. Eric doesn’t quite understand, not until he hears Dele’s whistling echo around his bathroom walls, too-skinny body on heavy feet that comes running, jump, leap into bed, curled up just the same. Staring at Eric from underneath eyelashes too dark to be real, waiting for something to be said._

_Eric thinks they’ll be waiting a long time, perfectly content to stay - watch Dele unfold in his madness and draw him in slowly - all without saying anything but if there’s one thing he’s learnt about Dele, between noticing his boundless energy and how cold his eyes can grow and the petulance that colours his voice more than it doesn’t; Dele doesn’t like quiet. So his eyelashes flutter, glowing in the morning light, sleepy-sticky and uncaring that now, their ankles are knocking together. Dele’s ankles are sharp._

_“Say something in Portuguese.” He demands, one jagged ankle into another._

_Eric says he’s weird, lips titling up just a little but Dele sighs like it’s a gift, bones clanging and asks for more, giggling at the changes in his tone and the indents in his voice. Dele’s eyes are too bright, Eric thinks. His neck still hurts too much, and he’s exhausted already. He speaks Portuguese for as long as Dele’s entertained, English as soon as he’s not._

_Eric teaches Dele how to say_ I love you _in Portuguese, smiling every time Dele drops it carelessly into conversation like they aren't the most important words in the world._

_*_

 

There's no roommates this trip, something about Stones breaking a lamp playfighting with Walker, so Eric has to stare at the ceiling in silence back in his hotel room, the only sound the gentle whirring of the air conditioning struggling to compete with the muggy Portuguese night. He feels light; not empty, just weightless. It's soothing, allows him to melt into the mattress and sigh happily thinking about everything England are promising. He believes Dele, so deeply he can feel the win already.

 

It's a relief, then, when the final whistle blows on his best mates doused in sweat and adrenaline and victory. They're screaming, shouting, Eric sprinting onto the pitch off the bench on Gareth's coat tails, Barkley and Butland and Hendo racing along beside him, falling into the pile in the centre of the pitch, all flailing limbs and one pounding English heart.

 

Gareth is kissing them all, hugging them so tight, visibly shaking in his excitement, hands grasping at each other so tightly Eric can feel the bruises already blooming but they've _won_. They're winners, the trophy is theirs, the first in this new era and it aches in his chest, this ache Eric's sure is pride and love and happiness all clamouring for attention so violently it _hurts_. He's smiling so much his teeth throb, his lips stretched too taut. Dele is tucked under his arm, beaming, teeth too white and mouth too wide, laughing too loud and shouting too much. Eric wants to bottle this moment forever, keep it for every time homesickness whips him dry, to remind him what love feels like.

 

 

"Three lions on a shirt!" They screech, in impressive union, hoarse and raw. Eric's ears are pounding, blood bubbling, overwhelmed by the affection he has for the men around him. Dele is in hysterics leaning against Raz, Jesse on Marcus' back and swinging his feet around widely, Walker and Stones serenading each other along with Baddiel and Skinner balanced on the table top. Winks is close to his side, body heat comforting although he's turned away from him to whisper brokenly in Chilwell's ear, sloppy and ecstatic.

 

When Eric hears the opening of World In Motion, he knows all hell is about to break loose. Stones _howls,_  shoving at Walker in his excitement until Walker's balancing on one leg and desperately trying to remain on the table with his arms windmilling, Pickford screaming along impressively coherently.

 

Dele's somehow migrated to his side, muttering along to himself, eyes wide and bright like they get when he's drunk. His head tilts sideways onto Eric's shoulder, cheek burning through the thin material of Eric's simple white shirt. Eric can feel his smile against his skin. The familiar tightness in his chest returns with a vengeance, threatening to choke him with it.

 

"I miss you, Del." He says quietly into his hair.

 

Dele hums and turns his face away. Eric has to swallow the vomit crawling up his throat.

 

"You're funny, Diet." Dele slurs, wandering off to slop more of his drink over his jeans.

 

*

_There’s a pressure against his abdomen, heavy and breathless. Eric stutters awake like Dele does, clumsy and raring, eyes slamming open and body jerking under the weight pinning him down. Dele is leaning over him, gaze trained on his lips, following his tongue as it sweeps across them nervously oncetwicethree times until Dele chases it with his own and giggles silly until they’re kissing properly._

_Dele tastes like artificial mint and Eric thinks his tongue must feel stale but Dele doesn’t seem to mind, working eagerly with the assurance of a man who doesn’t think mornings exist. His ankles are pushed into Eric’s thighs, imprinted onto his skin. Eric chuckles. A buzz of a radio catches his attention when Dele pulls back, foreign news reports that blur together because Dele’s nudging back onto him, morning so early he’s still wet and even more ready._

_Eric groans, hoarse and sleepy, body running hot all over, blood an undercurrent of heat, sweaty already. Dele looks smug, lips between teeth. His eyes are glinting, glittery in the low light filtering through the cheap, pointless curtains. Eric wants to kiss his eyelids but they don’t love, they fuck, and it doesn’t matter how gently they hold each other and how carefully they move and how many times Eric says otherwise in Portuguese as loud as he dares, he’s not allowed._

_“Tell me something funny.” Dele commands, movement of his hips teasing._

_His voice is too steady so Eric fucks it out of him, thighs burning with the effort, rolling his eyes and telling Dele an awful knock-knock joke that sends him spluttering into hysterics because it’s 5 in the morning in a hotel room in a country they don’t understand telling each other primary school jokes to the rhythm of their fucking. Eric thinks, only Dele, and he knows Dele would agree._

_They finish messy and gross, groaning about the mess in between giggles but Dele only clambers into Eric’s half, eyeing the wet patch with contempt and Eric laughs into his shoulder, barely able to contain himself._

*

 

The phone call is short and succinct. When Eric puts his phone down, his skin prickles with nerves and anticipation. He's the architect of his own future, of course, and he's just started building a brand new house in a strange new place with no idea where to start. He's pleased to feel excitement mingle with the anxiety.

 

Clay whinnies curled up next to him on the settee, almost like he's aware of the change. Eric smiles imagining him galloping through sea and sand, barking happily in the sun and he thinks it might be worth it just for that.

 

Dele will be the first to know. He decides it making himself scrambled egg for another day watching pointless documentaries and taking Clay on walks too long. He should be, Eric knows that, and surely once he's told everyone else will come easily. Dele needs to be the first to know.

 

Eric watches Porto videos on YouTube again that evening, smirking at the choppy editing and tacky effects that ruin every video. He secretly thinks it seems like a club for the washed-up and decreasing in value, but they made it to a Champions League quarter-final mere months ago, so he feels guilty for thinking it. He knows the ground from Sporting, knows the atmosphere and the Primeira Liga better than would be expected, luckily, but it still feels new and terrifying. The churning in his stomach is dominating now.

 

He has two weeks to sort out his next. Two weeks that have never looked as long but never as short, and definitely never as dangerous.

 

 

"Hiya, sorry I'm late." Dele apologises breathlessly, slumping into the armchair opposite Eric's. The sunlight beaming through the glass shopfront reflects off his eyes and Eric can see their exact shade of brown better than ever. He's already chewing at the straw in his smoothie, eyes fixed too firmly on Eric's face.

 

"It's alright," Eric smiles, even though it isn't -15 minutes sat alone with the knowledge of what he was about to divulge definitely wasn't alright, "how are you?"

 

Dele grins, fiddling with the sunglasses slipping off his head where they're pushed out of the way which Eric barely holds back an eye roll out. The glasses are disgusting, circular rose-tinted lenses with tacky gold frames. They match perfectly with the gold chain swinging from his neck, of course. Dele plays with that next, rolling the metal between his fingers as he tells Eric about Ibiza and girls and boys and a dozen different things Eric was never involved in. He stops only to take a sip from his smoothie, licking his lips too much when the straw slides back out between his lips.

 

"But how are you, mate?" Dele asks finally and Eric feels everything drop into the pit of his stomach like an avalanche of jagged rock. He can feel it cutting his insides to shreds. He's surprised when he coughs wetly into his palm, that it's not damp with blood. And then he shakes his head at his melodrama and decides to fix his line of sight on Dele's ugly glasses, flashing under the weight of the sunlight outside. "Haven't seen you in ages."

 

Eric grunts in acknowledgement, sipping at his coffee that's long gone cold. It slides down his throat, slimy and lukewarm; he can feel every drop of it travelling down his body.

 

"I'm alright." He mutters, feels it curl on his tongue like the lie it is. "I'm alright."

 

Dele nods distractedly. "Right, Diet, this beach in Ibiza was just incredible, the water was this turquoise colour, y'know proper -"

 

Eric interrupts him, voice too loud. "I'm moving, Del."

 

*

_"Promise me you'll tell me if you want to move." Dele mumbles into his bare chest, voice muffled and sleepy. "Promise me -" A yawn "- so I can tell you to stop being a knobhead."_

 

_"I promise, Del. Go to sleep."_

*

 

"Oh."

 

Is what Dele says. He freezes. Truly freezes. Eyes glued open, lips quivering with the effort of remaining still, half-empty glass floating halfway between his mouth and the table, forgotten. It's 30 seconds before he very audibly breathes, setting his glass on the table. His eyes close for as long as they were open.

 

"Oh." He says again, quieter. Eric can still feel it vibrate in his own chest.

 

"Yeah." He offers pathetically.

 

The silence draws on for longer than Eric can bear to count. He can hear their breathing, out of sync. One of them breathes out as another breathes in and Eric can't drag himself away from noticing it, going insane with the way he can hear it battering around his brain. In - _out_ \- out- _in_.

 

"Where?" Dele asks finally. His voice is even and he can look Eric in the eye.

 

"Porto." Eric hates how helpless he sounds. "It's not working for me here anymore, Del."

 

Dele's face contorts into something malicious and cruel. "Coward." He spits out and Eric feels it like Dele really did spit, right in his face, right into the gaping wound, just to make it sting. "A bad couple of months and you're giving up? Pussy."

 

"Dele." Eric says as firmly as his wavering voice can manage. "It's my decision."

 

The silence settles again after that. Eric supposes Dele has no argument and he doesn't have one himself. As much as he hates it, it is his decision and he's the one who's driven himself to this point. Eric can't even bring himself to look at Dele, he can't possibly cope with the anger and betrayal he knows he'll see.

 

"Good luck, I guess." Dele mutters petulantly, staring at his chunky trainers. Eric nods and stares at his own clasped hands. He's never felt so lonely.

 

 

 

By comparison, the rest of the squad is devastatingly easy. He calls the people he thinks deserve to hear straight-up, Winks and Kane wishing him luck with just the right disappointed tone Eric supposes he was looking for when telling everyone he was leaving. Dele's anger twists him up inside and leaves him knotted, even now. Suitably disappointed is definitely preferred.

 

He despises himself for his cowardice, but the rest of the squad are told via the group chat, in a text that reads as ugly and impersonal as he always imagined. It's met by the expected well wishes and sad faces, goodbyes and good lucks. Eric chooses to ignore the fall out for watching Dele's activity throughout, airways closing as Dele remains active for 10 minutes, clearly watching, clearly _knowing_. He keeps a careful eye on Dele's activity as he texts about farewell drinks, nails digging out his palms as he watches it change. _Active 1 minute ago_ never hurt so much.

 

 

 

It's strange looking at the men around him, people he's spent years of his life in the pocket of, and knowing it's the last time he'll be here. Sat with them all, laughing and smiling and talking because that's what they _do_ , even if they're ignoring the obvious. Eric's glad for Eriksen muttering away to him by his side, if only to take away the heat of moving; Christian got his long-expected move to Real Madrid and he's telling Eric about it like it doesn't shake him with anxiety. Eric can only envy him.

 

Dele and Winks are laughing with their foreheads touching, Kane and Trippier exchanging parenting anecdotes. Gazzaniga and Llorente are looking befuddled as Sonny and Jan explain a game they're wanting to play. Everyone seems happy. If Eric closes his eyes and focuses on that, it makes him feel happy too. Very suddenly, he's not sure if he wants to go, already homesick a week in advance.

 

The hairs on the back of his neck prick, the wash of warm breath sending shivers over his skin. Dele is leaning over his shoulder, somehow finding him again, somehow managing to do it like Eric doesn't attempt to catalogue his every movement. Maybe he _doesn't_ attempt Eric thinks suddenly, and the idea makes him feel strange.

 

"Why are you doing this?" Dele hisses, the _to me_ unspoken but definitely heard.

 

*

_"We're done, Eric."_

 

_Eric's voice sounds so small. "Why are you doing this?"_

*

 

"Because I've got to." Eric tells him simply, watching for any sign of Dele's thoughts in his eyes. Nothing shows.

 

*

_"We have to." Dele tells him, eyes averted, head down._

 

_"Okay." Too helpless._

*

 

"Okay." Dele's voice is too cold.

* * *

 

_Are you staying?_

_Did you fall?_

_Can you count to ten in German?_

_Can you whisper?_

_Can you lie?_

_Did you design your own website?_

_Have we met before?_


	2. during

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> of course as soon as i posted this, eric returned from injury! a few things came out that negated details in the last chapter but what can ya do. fiction after all

_Are you sleeping?_  
_Are you wise?_  
_What can you see from your window?_

* * *

 

There's no overwhelming sense of relief or _home_ when Eric steps off the plane, just the cloud of stale foreign air too hot that makes him smile all the same. It's mid 20s, he'd guess and it does make sweat prickle along the small of his back but it's little different than a heatwave back home ( _back home_ , he wonders and that feeling of dislodgement grows).

 

The keys for his flat dig into his palm, the jagged edge of the metal quickly warming in the clamminess of his hand. Clay is pulling on his lead, which Eric always hates - even the idea of the squeeze he's imposing on his neck makes him feel guilty - but he can't bring himself to stop staring at the door. It's white, glossy and freshly painted, leading to the penthouse Eric thought looked gorgeous online. He feels like regardless of what he sees when he steps inside, his mouth will taste bitter.

 

The door opens silently and smoothly, which is already a warning sign; Eric's door at home made this very specific groaning noise that he supposes he never really noticed until he opened a new front door without it. A blast of air-conditioned air escapes over the threshold as Clay noses at the handle, trying to drag Eric inside. He makes this muffled whining noise that finally triggers Eric's worry for his windpipe too far and pulls him inside.

 

It's...lacklustre, really. Nothing changes, except Eric lets out a little sigh through his pursed lips. It's white and clean and bright, glass and metal and greys. There's already a pot plant in the corner of the lounge, opposite a settee that looks rock solid. Eric eyes it suspiciously, wondering how it dares to not be as good as his sofa at home but then the idea of _home_ , like Eric had that all along without knowing and moved away in search of it only to realise it was in his grasp all along, makes him feel slow and broken. Clay grunts, thirsty, where the top of his head is brushing Eric's hand and he feels guilty all over again.

 

There's a marble island in the kitchen, and glass panels surrounding the whole lounge out onto a terrace currently empty. Eric stares at the bars in the barrier and imagines bright pink flowers threaded through them. He overfills Clay's water bowl because he isn't looking, too busy imagining it. He imagines lying on a sunbed after a hard day's slog, muscles aching _just_ right, because in his fantasy he's never injured, staring at the dark pink of his closed eyelids against the heavy sun as fuchsia flowers grow next to him.

 

Eric sets Clay's water down, watching some of it slosh onto the hard wood flooring unseeingly, imagining Dele lying in a sunbed next to him, sun glittering off his skin like tiny diamonds as he _laughs,_ their hands intertwined, maybe, next to purple flowers twining with dark pink and his eyes are closed because if he looks at Dele too long he chokes on his tongue.

 

 

There's nothing in English on telly. The Portuguese is fast and tangled, humour different and it's nothing Eric doesn't understand, but it shocks him how little he _knows_ it. Holidays on the coast summer after summer leaves little room for the simple things, television watching and coffee runs; it's jarring how much he's forgotten from his childhood, from Sporting and so eventually Eric gives up, 4 hours and 38 minutes into his new life.

 

His bed is over-large, sheets too white and too crisp. They're rough against his skin, the room empty and cool, a film over his body. The ceiling gleans no answers and the blinds block any view of the scattering of stars that are outside the window; Eric supposes that doesn't matter when there probably aren't any stars anyway. He thinks about people and strangers and loneliness, and old friends he's now miles away from, completely open to reconnect, and he thinks about Dele. He thinks about boyfriends and girlfriends until his eyes sting with tiredness and his brain is burning itself white in its thought loops.

 

A bottle of water fresh from the fridge (Eric reaches first for the tap and has to scold himself, put the glass back in the cupboard, slam the tap closed) and a gentle, defeated whistle for Clay. Clay comes trotting off the sofa, grumbling sleepily before he bounds onto Eric's bed, curling up on Eric's side in the warmth of his body. He sighs, smiles, finally falls asleep with the sure weight of Clay lying across his feet an hour later.

 

 

Their first game is on the 10th August, two days before Dele's ( _Tottenham's_ ) first. Eric can't even bring himself to imagine playing in the Primeira Liga as he brushes his teeth the following morning. He stares at himself in the mirror for so long he now hates his t-shirt. He brushes his teeth too hard so that when he spits his toothpaste out, red runs through it. He hates everything he sees in the mirror, and then hates himself a little more for all of a sudden being so insecure. He almost slings a towel over his reflection because he just can't seem to drag himself away but the buzzing of his phone thankfully pulls his attention. He slams the bathroom door as soon as he leaves.

 

Winks has text him to wish him luck for his first training session and Eric has to hold onto all his pride not to send a line of heart emojis back. The gratitude that bursts through him reading the simplicity of those words is surely unhealthy. He hesitates between sending what he really wants to reply, one hand tight around his keys in the ignition, before he squeezes his eyes up tight and presses send with a couple of clumsy jabs of his thumb. _Tell me any drama,_ he asked, hoping it sounded joking rather than desperate, even though it feels more and more pathetic the tighter Eric grips onto his steering wheel. The 30 minute leeway he gave himself for inevitable hesitation and potential impromptu tears has bled away. His knuckles are growing white in their grip around the wheel.

 

Eric recites Portuguese phrases and pronunciations to himself under his breath and over the jingle of the radio as he drives to PortoGaia. His windows are rolled down, even though the AC would do far better at cooling down the sleek black of his car, and his sunglasses are on to stop him from scrunching up his eyes too much. It had been one of his Mum's only parting words of advice, along with regular application of suncream. He shakes his head exasperatedly thinking about it, but also remembers that he neglected to put on any. He huffs knowing how sunburnt his nose and cheeks are going to get.

 

 

Eric supposes football is the same all the way around the world; a universal language. Even so, he's infinitely glad for his Portuguese, because everyone greets him in the language, pace rapid and accents potentially indecipherable. The dressing-room is raucous, tidy still but Eric knows once they've all piled out the door home it'll be littered with sweat-dripping socks and plastic bottles. There's a table in the centre, empty, and Eric feels a ridiculous pang knowing thousands of miles away everyone will be crowded around an identical one, battering each other with their elbows, playing Uno. He scoffs at himself for missing something so pointless.

 

" _Olá_."

 

Two dozen greetings in kind meet him, voices bubbling around him with names and questions and laughter. His blood smooths out a little, heartbeat settling in his ribcage instead of ricocheting off it painfully. The bombardment of names and half-known faces is overwhelming, Eric barely connects any dots other than those he can obviously barely miss; Casillas is strapping his gloves on, staring at the floor, mouth set in a hard line but he smiles not unkindly in Eric's direction, Pepe smoothing his kit down. Mbemba smiles at him, catching his eye across the changing room and he feels himself smiling back, shaking himself for his shyness.

 

Shyness evaporates quickly, however, as Eric finds himself subconsciously migrating towards him, for the faintest hint of security and comfort he represents; the only player Eric now rubs shoulders with who understands the life Eric's come from. Chancel's stilted English sounds good in Eric's ears, warm and comforting even it's broken and accented. He struggles on a word, and Eric curses himself for forcing himself to carry on speaking in a tongue he probably hasn't paid thought to in years; he uses his limited French to make up for it, blushing slightly when Chancel shakes his head and leads them back into Portuguese.

 

The sun weighs on his back, oppressive and sticky, sitting on the top of his thick kit and dragging him down. He can feel the heat prickle along his skin, and he sighs, trying to pay attention to Conceição as he leads them through sprints, and then rondo. The team are in high spirits, unspent energy from off-season pulsing through them, and they laugh and nudge Eric like he always missed in physio. He laughs and grins. It's bittersweet.

 

"English boy!" Someone calls, Herrera he thinks, and everyone chuckles. Eric supposes that's him initiated, and he feels he should be more relieved by the fact.

 

He can feel the flake of burnt skin on his nose, tender and red to the touch and he winces as they trot back inside. He thinks he hears a low snigger, but he turns around and he's alone. It's disarming, the sudden expanse of dry grass and muggy air all to himself, the laugh ringing round his head that never really existed. He sprints for the door, doesn't look back.

 

Sweating and panting, Eric returns to the dressing room running on nerves. He checks his phone feverishly, clicking through notifications as he fiddles with his shorts and t-shirt, folding his training kit nicely even though its sopping wet. His Mum's sent a few well-wishes, the England group chat's blown up with a The Sun headline but there's no other messages buried in the eruption of notifications. Dele hasn't said a word.

 

*

_The boy is cocky. He's all close-cropped black hair and too-wide brown eyes. He's too gangly, long limbs that look too skinny to support his considerable height. He's staring at Eric like he's daring him to comment, but Eric can't possibly imagine what his comment might be. He's too overwhelmed by this boy's powerful (over)confidence, screaming both of security and vulnerability all in one._

_"I'm Dele." The boy, Dele, tells him, chest puffed out, after nutmegging Walker and Alderweireld one after the other._

_"I know." Eric says with a smile he wanted to be welcoming but may be more of a smirk. "I'm Eric."_

_Dele raises his eyebrows. There's a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that Eric feels bad for staring at. "I know." He says, cheekily, and knocks one of his legs against Eric's._

*

 

"Liking Porto?" Isaac asks, swirling his wine around his glass. He's relaxed in his chair, gaze on the slowly-emptying beach and promenade.

 

Eric nods gently, sipping at his own wine. It's heavy and rich, so red it's almost black. He feels hazy already, eyelids heavy with the wine and lack of sleep. Clay patters into his bedroom every night now; 8 year rule banning it completely ignored. He can't really sleep otherwise.

 

"It's a lovely city." Eric says earnestly, a little loosely. He gets drawn into the lazy dip of the waves.

 

"Not long now, eh?" Isaac reminds him. Eric shrugs.

 

Not long at all. Two weeks have stumbled past, too fast and not fast enough. Eric could tell Isaac how long it is to the hour, but an old Lisbon friend more immersed in the sandcastles dotted along the sand won't want to hear it. It's the kind of thing he'd admit to Dele at two in the morning, drained and aching with tiredness, except they haven't spoke since he left and Dele has too many other people who probably care about him more and a life that doesn't leave him staring at his own bedroom walls, alone, in the early hours of the morning. He very suddenly pities himself.

 

"Only Boavista." Isaac reasons, leaning forward and lighting a cigarette. Eric watches the tendrils of smoke escape from the curl of his lips.

 

Eric nods again and delves into the small talk expected, asking after wives and children and dogs and careers. He watches the cigarette throughout, the ash fading off, orange ring glowing as it darkens. The bottle of wine is empty, and Eric realises he had most of it. He leaves €10 more than Isaac does, and the shrapnel floating around in the bottom of the pocket, unable to bring himself to care when Isaac doesn't even reference it.

 

 

Eric ties his shoe laces too tight, and picks a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. He leaves his phone at home, only realises when he's pulling into the car park of PortoGaia, screaming expletives over the radio turned up to drown out the thoughts ramming against his skull. He digs his nails into his forearms, forcing himself to breath in pattern. When he swings his car door open and stomps towards the team bus, he knows his eyebrows are creating grey shadows over his eyes; he doesn't want to check if there's indents in the skin of his arms.

 

Estádio do Dragão is overwhelming. It beats, energy pulsing through it like it's living. He runs onto the pitch to the cheering of people who have never considered him before, who have maybe even seen him here, decked out in white, screaming himself hoarse as England beat Portugal to the Nations League. The thought makes his mouth dry.

 

They _are_ cheering, however, and it might not be for him, but Eric is _here_ , blue and white (a different blue and a different white), unsure if his nausea is because of the stripes of his kit clouding his vision or the 40,000 people. He smirks, whistle blowing and suddenly nothing matters.

 

Tiquinho breaks the deadlock in the 72nd minute. Eric starts screeching his praise and excitement in English, Portuguese only flowing when Chancel gives him a little nudge. He laughs exasperatedly at himself, and then just laughs for the sake of it, because Eric is the luckiest person in the world and this moment proves it even if the months and months previous do not. Arms wrap around him, and he pats Tiquinho on the head, and for the first time in close to a month, he wonders if maybe _home_ exists here after all.

 

 

Clay startles when he slams the front door shut, frame rattling. He's thrumming with energy, desperate to do something, the adrenaline making just _existing_ seem pointless; he wants to jump spiralling off a cliff into salt-crusted water, pound the ground bloody sprinting until his lungs split. He paces around the house, guzzling two bottles of water, grinning at himself in the mirror, playing with Clay too boisterously. Happy, he thinks, in the best of ways.

 

The lit-up face of his phone on the island catches his eye, breath leaving him in one lightheaded rush before he heaves in again. He's smothered in messages, his thumb aching as he scrolls and scrolls and scrolls, heart finally stuttering.

 

 **Dele** : fair play diet

 

Eric collapses on the sofa and twiddles his thumbs for 10 minutes deciding how to reply.

 

 

Eric debates between going to an Irish bar he caught a glimpse of down the street that he knows will be playing the game and hold its fair capacity of British tourists screaming and shouting over it as they slop pints, or drinking his way through an expensive bottle of wine watching it on his own settee. Eventually, despite its uncomfortableness, Eric chooses his flat. He scrutinises the sofa for a few minutes, Clay happily curled up on it as always entirely unbothered, and folds his duvet over it, scattering cushions and pillows he finds at the back of the cupboard. He laughs as he sits down, the improvement hardly worth it, especially as he sits perched on the edge after the 3rd minute anyway.

 

Dele is playing just behind Sonny, and Bale palmed off on loan, Kane up front and looking shifty on his ankle. Eric makes a mental note to message him about it, with well wishes and the kind of sensible questions Harry loves to answer. He smiles quietly to himself.

 

Rice and Winks cover Dele's sides, the 15 magnified on Rice's back in Eric's eyes. Selfishly, and cruelly, he prays Rice has a bad game, prays Winks' consistency and simplicity shows Rice up, Dele's creativity shining through against the backdrop of his football, but he quickly grinds a clenched fist against his thigh too hard in punishment for his malice. He chooses to simply ignore Rice instead.

 

They're playing Leicester. Eric watches in horror as Vardy nets an early goal, a stunning strike that slips past Hugo's fingertips. The camera focuses on the dejection clouding Dele's face, frantic Portuguese jabbering over it. Eric feels sick.

 

Nothing seems to work. Cross after cross flies into the box, Walker-Peters diligently taking the task on almost single-handedly but they land them nothing and Eric can sense Dele is getting more and more frustrated.

 

"Stay calm, Delboy." He mutters, ignoring the soft growl Clay makes.

 

The goal is sloppy and unattractive, but a goal all the same, a clumsy header by Jan into the left-hand corner; it's a goal that means everything and he can see that in Dele's face as he clambers onto Jan's back and slides back down, grinning the wide smile that shows off every tooth. Eric feels a ghost of a smile pull at his lips in remembrance, and decides very suddenly, watching Tottenham play is a very bad idea. He switches the telly off before he can consider it any longer, staring at his own reflection in the black screen.

 

 **Dele** : wouldn't it be a shame if we won the league as soon as ur gone 

 

It ended 3-1. Kane and Sonny. Dele got a yellow. Eric forces himself not to find out why.

 

 **Eric** : Sods law

 

Eric watches the two blue ticks glow and nothing come of them until Clay starts whining for his dinner.

 

 

Porto and Tottenham's results almost seem to be running parallel. 5 games in, they are both unbeaten, Tottenham skittering around 2nd place whilst Porto are level with Benificia. Eric doesn't start every game, he's yet to play a full 90 minutes, but the burning in his muscles and scars is easily forgotten now when the ball is at his feet. He's stopped his little anxious stutters speaking to the squad, and they affectionately (he hopes) call him English boy. Eric's starting to remember the sound of his own laugh again. It's nice.

 

 

"Eric!" Gareth exclaims, beaming. "How are you?"

 

He gets folded into a hug, tight and warm. He tucks his head just barely into Gareth's shoulder, small gush of breath leaving him as he relaxes for that mere second. Gareth clasps a sure hand around the base of his skull as he draws him back, and his smile is more perceptive, too knowing for Eric to be able to meet his eyes.

 

"I'm alright." Eric says easily, and he thinks it might be true. "Porto's good for me, I think. We're doing well."

 

Gareth nods, leading him across the foyer to the coffee machines. Eric's grateful for the distraction from eye contact and intense conversation, nodding his thanks when Gareth hands him a milky coffee. His flight was early, the journey and morning pulling at his eyelids and dragging them down; he's the first to arrive, a calm before the storm. He's missed England.

 

"You seem to be doing well. It was a brave choice, Eric. Well done."

 

Eric goes a little pink at that, muttering his thanks again, staring at the swirling of the carpet. His paper cup of coffee is too hot in his palm, radiating through the skin. Gareth's too kind and so Eric's pathetically grateful when Hendo comes barrelling in, attracting his attention in barks of laughter and a pointed grin. The bear hug he gives Eric crushes his stomach but makes him _miss_ so much it hurts. Suddenly, he doesn't want to see everyone, the pain of having what he left behind for a sliver of time before he has to give it back worse than never seeing it at all.

 

It's hug after hug, laughter clouding the air, so many voices that he all recognises and its overwhelming. Winks is clinging to him, smile scrunching his freckled cheeks up, buzzing on everything, demanding to know every detail, _Eric that's so cool, we all miss you so much, it's not the same without you, Jan and Toby kissed when they were drunk last week, can you believe that, I couldn't, who's -_

 

Dele catches his eye, shaking his head teasingly at the hints of Winks' rambling he must be able to hear. His smile is shy, sympathetic. He's more muscled already, arms thickening, chest wide and pulling his Nike England t-shirt tight across it. He nods hello and Eric nods his hello back. They smile, mirrored, and whatever Winks did last week doesn't filter through past the spark in Dele's eyes.

 

 

"How's Porto?" Dele asks absentmindedly, fiddling with the drawstring in his shorts. It's the 14th time he's been asked the question, identically.

 

"Good." He replies eagerly, determined to make Dele believe him. He believes himself, finally.

 

"Got a hot Portuguese missus yet?" Dele's on his phone now, thumbs tapping rapidly. Eric watches the blur of them and then Jesse and Marcus clambering on top of each other on the beanbags behind their settee. Jesse is sat astride Marcus' chest, yanking at his hair as Marcus whines and giggles and pushes him away half-heartedly.

 

"No, Dele."

 

"Shame."

 

*

_"Give it back, you fucking dickhead." Dele grates through gritted teeth._

 

_Eric holds his phone tight in his hands, well above his head, out of Dele's reach as he scrambles for it. Dele's palm is pushed right against his chest, weight of his entire body pressing through his hand and leaving Eric breathless. He sniggers to himself mischievously and lifts himself up, the split second notice Eric gets before Dele drops his body weight back down, falling back on his gut and as he wheezes and clutches at his abdomen, Dele makes a wild lunge for his phone clasped in Eric's hand behind his head._

 

_"Delete the video!" Eric croaks, still massaging his stomach. There's dangerous centimetres between his fingers and Dele's crotch still resting on his abdomen. Dele's hand is still gripped in the muscle of his chest, Eric's sure fingertip bruises are marking into the pale skin. Dele's phone is still, miraculously, out of Dele's reach._

 

_"You've got tits." Dele says, squeezing right over Eric's sprinting heart and as Eric splutters, entire body convulsing in his shock, Dele grabs his phone from between his fingertips and clambers off, sprawling beside him like nothing happened. Eric stares at him._

 

_"You have, though." Dele shrugs, unlocking his phone and immediately replying to everything he will have missed in the four and a half minutes he was unable to. "I'd never lie to you, Diet."_

*

 

Porto is still Porto when he returns. He doesn't look at it any different, but his throat twists itself tangled looking at the photos of his teammates dotted around his flat. Eventually, he hides them at the back of his wardrobe, telling Clay how stupid he is. Clay merely snuffles, demanding more attention. Eric takes him on a walk hours too long when he picks him up from Isaac's flat after his flight, listening to the playlist Dele made for their holiday to Portugal. His nose is pink and tender when he gets home. He almost punches the mirror into shards.

 

 

"Eric!" Augusto calls as they stagger back into the changing room. Training burns in his lungs like acid but his stamina is returning, muscles strengthening again. It's rewarding, at least.

 

"We're going out tonight. Come." Eric appreciates his bluntness.

 

"Could do with a fuck." He says, uncaring about his crudeness or his own honesty. Felipe just barks with laughter, clapping him on the back harder than he was expecting. He coughs at the impact.

 

 

It's too dark, in the way that screams luxury price tag rather than €1 shots, but it's still uncomfortable. His cocktail burns along the back of his throat, cutting a path down, and it's already making his words slur slightly as Torres rambles sloppily about his girlfriend. Eric is listening absent-mindedly, soaked through with sweat and alcohol and the music, pounding bass echoing through his eardrums. Óliver is trailing off already, melting further into their booth. Eric laughs hoarsely.

 

The girl is all soft curves and long blonde hair. Her eyes are kohl-lined and murky blue, bronzer harsh along the lines of her face. She's pretty, Eric thinks sloppily, pretty and sexy and pretty and coming his way, oh.

 

" _Olá_." She smirks. Her chest is spilling out of her mini dress, dainty hand already resting on his arm.

 

Eric fucks her against the wall in his hallway, hitching her dress up until it sits around her tummy, digging into his own chest. His arms barely burn with her weight, but her whimpering grates on him and he thrusts harder and faster than he knows he should, desperate to get it over with, desperate to sleep and forget. He doesn't even know her name. He grunts instead when he finishes, dropping her unceremoniously and disappearing into his bathroom. He hears his front door stutter closed, unable to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

 

 

It becomes something of a habit. In between the incredible run of wins, first place secure even if Beneficia are just as confident, training and dog-walking and too many bottles of wine with old friends, Eric starts going out alone, bars and clubs. It hasn't been a girl since the blonde, all boys prettier than it's possible to comprehend, small and skinny enough to fit easily in Eric's grip.

 

This one is slim and willowy, dark soft curls and eyes too-black to really show anything. His nose is sharp and Eric can see all the bones in his face, his focus too fixated on the sweep of his cheekbones. He’s smiling coyly at Eric, and Eric isn’t sure which version of himself he’s portraying; which version of himself this boy is seeing. Clumsy and oafish, grumpy and standoffish? Or maybe that’s exactly what this boy is looking for, a man who’s muscled enough to fuck him against the wall and dominant enough to bite right into his throat. Eric feels guilty for thinking the boy is after anything at all because maybe he is just after _him_. Whoever that may be. He's too drunk.

 

“Hello.” The boy says in hesitant English, looking confused by his own words like he’s surprised he could say it. His eyebrow immediately raises in a silent _did I get it right?_ which makes Eric smile, just a little, into the rim of his glass.

 

“ _Olá_.” Eric says instead, watching for how the boy reacts.

 

Predictably, he looks surprised. Eric supposes he does look particularly English even if sometimes he feels anything but. He’s oddly pleased to defy this boy’s expectations, however.

 

“Eric.” Eric tells him, smiling at the boy’s answering giggle in reaction to his name and feeling his throat ache just a little.

 

“Ângelo.” The boy tells him, voice soft. He pecks Eric on each cheek and his hand remains on Eric’s forearm when he pulls back. His thumb drifts along the edge of Eric’s shirt.

 

 _Pretty name for a pretty boy_ , Eric thinks. Ângelo grins, like he can read Eric’s mind, and he really hopes not because as much as Ângelo is gorgeous, and makes Eric feel a little flushed, he’s always thinking about someone else. Maybe Ângelo can see that too, withhis bittersweet smile.

 

The boy’s laugh is loud and giggly, even when he barks with laughter. He doesn’t laugh at all of Eric’s halting jokes, but when he does, he laughs for stretches of time that leave Eric able to watch the pretty line of his throat as he throws his head back, or the ringlet that falls into his eyes when he shakes his head too violently. _Dele laughed at all my jokes_ , Eric thinks watching Ângelo’s tonsil dance in the cab ride back to his as he laughs.

 

Clay is lying in a tight circle on the settee when he closes the front door behind them. The noise stirs him barely, but Ângelo doesn’t make a move to greet him, and Eric wants to stop that from making him shut himself away, a little. Ângelo’s laughter thereafter doesn’t make him smile as much.

 

Ângelo’s lips do look prettier around his cock, he finds himself thinking, unable to draw himself away from comparing them, even when Ângelo is nothing like Dele and Dele is nothing like Ângelo and Eric is over Dele anyway. But he notices anyway, that Ângelo’s lips are pinker and plumper and they seem to glisten with spit prettily more than he can remember Dele’s doing, but he doesn’t hum around him just to make his knees weak or moan sloppily deep in his throat to undo him. Ângelo doesn’t know to do any of that, but Eric finds himself annoyed at him for not thinking of it anyway.

 

Ângelo just takes it, takes it quietly, with little whimpers he bites his lip to stop and a hand rough on himself without asking or pleading, like he wants to get it over with already. He doesn’t insult Eric’s prowess or whinge or whine, doesn’t press his foot into Eric’s arse to hurry him, doesn’t squeeze around him inside just to be annoying. He takes it like Dele would never do, and so Eric finds himself shutting his eyes and imagining a different kind of tight heat that feels more like his, definitely is his, belongs to _him_ \- and comes embarrassingly quickly into a body that definitely isn’t. Ângelo just moans.

 

*

_ "Do you love me?" Dele taunts, hanging upside down off Eric's bed as he packs for their game in Germany. His face is slowly changing colour as the blood flow rushes to his head and his eyes are starting to bulge out of their sockets with the strain. Eric tries to hide his grin in a rough cough. _

_ "Why would I?" Eric teases back, folding a plain t-shirt and tucking it carefully into his suitcase. Dele just manages to roll his eyes, but rolls himself over the right way up and starts spluttering at the sudden unlimited oxygen flow. Eric chuckles.  _

_ "You love me, Eric Dier." Dele tells him confidently. He's staring up at Eric from the bed and Eric feels a surge of something he supposes could be called love, but he's learnt to bury it deep under the surface and call it fondness instead.  _

_ "And if I do?" They skirt round it everyday, to the point it doesn't even make Eric nervous anymore. It's part of their evolution.  _

_Dele just shakes his head, and giggles, smiles, rolls his eyes. Stares up at Eric still, smile stretching his lips just for Eric, just because of him and only him. There's no if, no when, just now. Eric doesn't say he loves Dele yet, and Dele doesn't say he loves Eric yet either._

*

 

Eric can feel it. The exact second it happens, he knows. He screams, fucking screeches, every expletive he knows in Portuguese and then, because that isn't enough, _fuck fuck fuck_ until he realises he's crying. Embarrassment curls in his stomach, and he retches into the grass. Nothing but phlegm and spit comes up, acidic rising up his throat. Chancel pats his shoulder, consolingly he supposes, but his eyes are wet and the tears are collecting in the sleepless nights bruised into his under-eye and everything feels wrong. Eric forgot how disgusting _wrong_ feels sitting in the pit of your gut.

 

The physios rush over to him, hands under his armpits to help him up. His hip cries out at the strain, Eric wincing and clenching his fists so tight he can feel his nails pierce his palm, just as a distraction. He thinks someone might be shushing him but his ears are rushing, roaring like he's buried under a current of water. Every step hurts but every tear hurts his pride more.

 

"Hip flexor?" He asks an hour later, voice croaky, answer already imbedded in his brain. He misses Clay and then he wants to cry again for being so pathetic.

 

The doctor nods his head, scribbling insanely quickly across a sheet of paper. Voices blur around him, comfort bled out of them, Portuguese too harsh and throaty. Eric stares at them, kneading his hands into his thighs even though it worsens the ache sat at the top of his left thigh. One of the medics notices and scolds him coldly, pulling his hand away. He leaves the physio room with a little rattling bottle of painkillers and defeat. Sometimes he wonders why he doesn't just give up.

 

Eric scrolls through his camera roll when he gets home, leg propped up on a mound of cushions, although Eric's unsure of how much help it'll really do. It only seems to make his foot tingle with lack of circulation; when he staggers up to dump Clay's dinner in his bowl he has to hobble until the feeling bleeds back in. He laughs a little at himself, harsh and gruff. A few teammates have asked after him already, and he replies watching a documentary about Picasso's _Guernica_. He's barely listening, but he's always thought it rather ugly.

 

Eric lies on his side in bed, Clay on the settee tonight, Eric unwilling to force him to sleep with him. He stares at the empty side of the bed, the side by the window. Dele always wanted the left side, refused to sleep on the right. Eric had always liked the left too, but he never told Dele that. He just smiled and nodded, overwhelmingly pleased he could make Dele smile like that with something as simple as a side of the bed. Eric can't sleep on the left now. It belongs to Dele. He wonders if it always will.

 

*

_He stares at the ceiling, thinking, when he wakes up. Eric can see spirals in the darkness of the room and he follows them, soothed by Dele’s breathing. The only time he’s ever predictable, and he still whines and stutters, breathes through his nose sometimes and through his teeth others. His legs are wrapped around Eric’s, goosebumps tingling and ankles knocking, the harsh ridge of them digging into the muscle of Eric’s legs._

_He can’t hear rain, or see sun, but he can feel the strands of Dele’s hair itching his nostrils and too close to his lips, feel every line of Dele’s body against his, messy and never perfect. Eric’s stomach clenches, thinking of Dele’s kitchen and the abundance of microwave meals and likely no real food, suddenly starving. He always waits until Dele’s awake; it’s their unspoken agreement, a common courtesy never ignored. They’ve never slept in the same bed and not woken up together. He considers writing a note or sending a text, imagines how it’d feel to kiss Dele’s eyelids with the barest brush of his lips before piling into his car and not thinking about it until the next time. Even if there’s a suffocating regret, they wake up together._

_An elbow flies into his stomach suddenly, razor-sharp and winding. He chokes around a cry, laughing breathlessly when his body realigns and Dele wheezes awake like rusty cogs kicked into motion. Eric can feel his laugh in every place they’re connected, feel it like it’s from his own throat. Without thinking, he plants a kiss on the very top ridge of Dele’s spine, featherlight. Dele’s giggling flattens until he turns around to look at Eric from under thick eyelashes, legs twitching._

_“Surprised to see you here.” He jokes, eyes slow even if he’s anything but. Dele uses so much energy, Eric is exhausted by it._

_He isn’t sure why Dele is second-guessing now, questioning how much he cares. “Why wouldn’t I be?”_

_Dele stays quiet, like he’s mulling that over or maybe accepting it. He twists in Eric’s grip, too open already, grinning and easy like he was the first time. Eric smooths a hand along the back of his neck at a phantom reminder of the ache in his muscles, smiling just barely. Dele’s face flashes impossibly brighter, wide-eyed and desperate and so Eric sighs._

_“D’you wanna have breakfast?” He asks, small and unsure, used to the words in Portuguese and anxious at the way they curl on his tongue in English. “Together.”_

_Dele beams, sharp ankles and knobbly knees and too-dark eyelashes. Eric couldn’t explain why he thinks Dele is pretty if he tried but he knows, knows when he wakes up and feels what he loves, why he does. It’s the small things he adores, the details and intricacies of Dele that he’s learnt to notice and miss and appreciate._

_Dele’s smile is blinding. “Make me pancakes."_

_*_

 

Eric giggles as Chancel digs his fingertips into the ladder of his ribs, pressing right into the grooves to tickle the laughter out of him. He laughs so much his stomach aches, tears leaking from his eyes as he tries desperately to shove him away, but he has the height advantage as Eric's sprawled across the floor, body held at a funny angle to protect his hip.

 

"Pussy." Felipe calls where he's watching hanging from the doorframe, face flushed with the slight chill descending on Porto in its winter. Torres is clinging to his elbow, and they're all smirking. Eric smiles back, finally allowed to breath as Chancel gives him one last half-hearted shove in the shoulder.

 

"€50 million for an injured liability!" Torres teases, half-hidden in the shadow of the hallway and the crook of Felipe's body. They all jeer and bark with laughter, Eric staring at the floor, laughing tightly through closed lips. His hip throbs but the distraction of his friends (he guesses; hopes) is nearly enough. It's a dull twinge now that he's not alone with the physio, stretching until his muscles protest and his bones crack.

 

"You're winning without me." Eric reasons, because they are. Porto are steamrolling towards the league title, a two point margin keeping them clear of Benificia.

 

Chancel tuts and shakes his head, joining the others by the door. Afternoon training has already started, Eric can hear the clatter of studs on the concrete path leading to the fields. "Lucky you're not a striker, otherwise we wouldn't be."

 

In the kerfuffle of affirmative grunts and goodbyes, doors closing and laughter ringing as it moves down the hallway, Eric thinks that might be the kindest thing anyone's said to him in months. He wants so badly to be needed.

 

 

Rehabilitation is as painfully boring in Porto as it was in London. He can't jet off to Dubai, confined to Porto as it edges closer and closer to Christmas, the cracks of fatigue beginning to show as Porto record two consecutive losses for the first time this season. Eric watches through clasped fingers, strips of the telly too much for his heart on the verge of giving up. He feels too helpless and there's nothing he can do to change it. Smacking an angry fist against the ball of barbed wire sitting under his skin only makes it hurt more, angry tears welling in his eyes as he jabs the off button on the telly remote. He takes more painkillers than he's supposed to, attempting to combat the sudden burn he ignited in the muscle and prays he wakes up in the morning.

 

Between the dragging slog of physio sessions and prodding doctors' fingers, Porto games he can do nothing to influence and nameless men with fluttering eyelashes when he can drag himself into dress shirts, Eric would be lying if he said he doesn't think about Dele. There's always time, too many hours in the day where his mind's lazy and aimless, memories and missing him playing through his brain on a never-ending film reel. They don't talk. Eric can't decide if that's better or worse.

 

  

"Darling!" His Mum crows when he enters their holiday home in the Portuguese countryside. The flagstone floor is cold on his bare feet when he slips his shoes off, chill of the whitewash walls and large windows shivering through him. He can hear the crackle of the fire, the haze of conversation. He kisses his Mum on both cheeks, smiling small and sad into her hair when she pulls him close and buries into his shoulder.

 

“Love you.” She whispers when she drags away, hand drifting along his cheek. He nods, lump like a cracking rock blocking his throat. The reply he manages to haggle out is broken and twisted. So ugly sounding the truth is frighteningly apparent.

 

“How’s Porto?” Everyone asks, of course, when he’s safely seated on the settee by the fire, surrounded by siblings and dogs and glasses of wine. His Mum frets over alcohol with his medication, demanding to read the label on the bottle, writing herself a post-it note to remind him to take them.

 

“I’ve been taking them myself for weeks, Mum.” He reassures her quietly. “I can look after myself.”

 

His Mum nods, backing away to fold into his Dad’s side. Dozens of eyes are on him, too much attention for a room that suddenly feels claustrophobic and tight. He pulls his jumper off, wincing as it catches on his nose, before answering.

 

“Good.” He breathes. “Really good. We’re doing great.”

 

His Mum’s proud beam makes his heart clench in his chest. His Dad claps him on the back, voice gruff as he asks more questions, brothers and sisters butting in with their interventions until they’ve bled him dry, emptied him of all information. He’s exhausted, finding himself drifting off as Lucy tells them about her new flat in Richmond. He vaguely hears that it _actually_ has a garden. He’s becoming more acquainted with the precise shade of red of his wine.

 

Clay clambers over him the following morning, breathing too loud and paws uncaring as they dig into his chest and thighs. He heaves awake, chuckling exhaustedly as Clay watches him expectantly. Christmas, Eric thinks slowly, reaching out a hand to scratch his chin.

 

“Happy Christmas, Clay.” Eric says lowly.

 

The amount of socks flying around the lounge is obscene. The fire is too hot, the back of Eric’s neck prickling with the heat as he perches on the stool in front of it, unwrapping pointless accessory after pointless accessory, handing out his badly wrapped socks and hats and jewellery to the people he loves most in the world. He wishes, belatedly, that he put more effort in.

 

The table heaves under the weight of the spread his Mum’s put on, food he shouldn’t even be looking at, food he gulps down knowing his nutritionist is going to have an aneurism trying to take off him. He smiles happily, warm and full, hip twitching only when he concentrates on it, pain ignorable thanks to how strict his Mum’s being with his tablets. Eric doesn’t say much, listens more than he talks but he doesn’t think anyone in the world makes him happier than his family.

 

“Happy Christmas, everyone.” He smiles quietly when he bails to his bedroom too early, Clay trotting along behind him always like a Disney sidekick. Eric falls asleep faster than he can remember doing in months.

*

_“Happy Christmas, angel.” Eric mutters sleepily, slinging a leg across Dele’s. He can feel the goosebumps dotting Dele’s calves against the skin of his own. He presses closer in response._

_“I don’t like Christmas.” Dele tells him quietly, threading his legs through Eric’s. “Even with the Hickfords - just don’t like it.”_

_Eric hums, unsure of what is best to say. He understands, honestly he does, and he wish Dele would realise that, but Dele sees it as pity. Dele hates to be pitied._

_“It’s not Christmas, then.” Eric mumbles, already turning his head back into the pillow. He’ll ring his Mum later, assure her he’s eating a Christmas dinner even if him and Dele are only binge-watching Game Of Thrones curled up on the sofa, promise that he’ll spend Christmas with the family next year._

_“I got you a present, though.” Dele says lazily, folding his body further into Eric’s until they mould into one. “A really good one.” Cockily, with a yawn._

_Eric hums, reaching for Dele’s hand. It’s overheating, palm sticky with sweat. He wraps his own tight around it, drifting his thumb along his knuckles. They’re just as sharp as the rest of him._

_“Presents.” Eric yawns too, can’t help himself. Clay and Cisco bark downstairs and he curses, praying it’s not baltic outside, knowing he’ll have to walk them in approximately 13 minutes. “But nothing else. Just a normal day.”_

_Dele shakes his head, clinging onto Eric. “That’s not fair on you.”_

_Eric shushes him, kisses along his hairline until his lips taste like the warmth of Dele’s skin. He slides himself away regretfully, pulling on Dele’s too-big Adidas trackies that fit him just right. The dogs are screaming for his attention now. He sighs._

_“Happy Christmas, Eric.” Dele grins, the gleam of the watch he gave Eric nowhere near as bright._

_Eric can feel the engraving on the base of the watch against the soft hairs of his forearm, imagines it even if he can’t really feel it. He imagines it feels like love, and he knows he can definitely feel it then._

_Dele shovels more Chinese into his mouth, crispy seaweed and sweet and sour sauce hanging from his lips. Eric grins around his own mouthful of sticky ribs, picking at his prawn toast as he circles a lazy finger tip around the bony knob of his wrist jutting out his skin._

_Eric stares at the telly, The Inbetweeners boxset running through Series 2 already, watching Dele sigh contentedly and smile to himself and close his eyes lazily out the corner of his eye._

_He continues staring ahead. “I love you.” He mumbles, words clumsy in their newness._

_Dele nods, finally swallowing his mouthful too loudly. “I love you, too.” Nothing less._

*

 

“What on earth have you been eating?!” His nutritionist demands. Her eyebrows are knitted together, pulled painfully close. Her forehead looks dangerously lined in her stress.

 

“It was Christmas!” Eric defends himself weakly, wincing as she starts hastily scribbling through a meal plan. He catches the word kale and quinoa and has to turn himself away, unable to watch the pain of the food he will be forced to eat until his weight returns to normal.

 

Angry at himself for the extra thickness heavy around his muscles, he douses himself in cologne and a too-white shirt, casting one last glimpse over the meal plan tacked to his fridge that glares with the dinner he’s neglecting to eat. He has two days before the physio team expect him back.

 

The bar is heavy with rumbling music and bodies squeezed together too tight. He manages to make it to the bar, smoothing his shirt down and signalling for the bartender. She plasters on a tired smile, so Eric tips her more than he’d ever dare, turning away with his drink slopping in his hands before he can catch the shock on her face.

 

Everyone’s here with someone. Chatter is deafening over the already heavy music, groups close together and shouting themselves hoarse over the racket. Eric leans himself against the back wall, sipping at his drink as he watches. He’s not quite sure what he wants, definitely never sure of what he needs. He thinks about his injury and how livid the doctors would be; he thinks about his nutritionist and how he’d probably cause her premature death with the amount of calorific alcohol he’s been gulping and neglecting to tell her of.

 

He thinks about a lot other than his surroundings, taken by complete surprise when a tall man, densely packed muscle and wide, big hands, mutters a greeting in his ear. He’s taller than Eric just barely, maybe an inch over him, dark short hair and sharp eyes Eric can’t tell the colour of. He’s too blunt, nose long and straight, jawline harsh and sharp. His incisors are pointed when he smiles.

 

Eric imagines the headlines as his entire body clenches against the pain. He picks the discrete clubs, all of a certain prestige and status, but even so there’s so much juice in the story his trysts could garner. He wonders how he gets away with it time and time again, until his thoughts blur together into a string of pained pleasure and he can’t think of much else other than the harshness of the thrusts the man is forcing into his body.

 

He forget to mention his hip, and the grasp the man has in the muscle of his arse, fingers tight and bruising along his hipbones, aches. It all bleeds together, ache in his hip, burn where the man is fucking with no care, grunting and _taking_. Eric just whimpers, grappling at the sheets.

 

The man kisses him slow and soft when he pulls out, getting Eric off kindly and selflessly, payment maybe, for the way he used Eric’s body. He leaves without Eric needing to ask, last kiss to his cheekbone, whisper of a touch, and Eric furrows further into his bed, wincing at the sting enveloping his entire lower half. He forgot how this felt.

 

 

The medics clear him before the end of January, miraculously, amazingly. Eric decides not to tell anyone about the twinging he feels when he runs, muscles screaming anytime he does, because it’s manageable and he’s stronger than people think and he’s determined. He wants to feel needed, and he’s decided he should show why he should be.

 

The games come faster than he can really cope with, each passing in a flash of flying colours and cheering and booing before there’s another; different place, different colours, same goal. Porto are going to win, and Eric is sure of it.

 

Tottenham are going to win too, and Eric doesn’t have to be as sure of that when it’s true. They’re still in all competitions, Champions League campaign impressively better than Porto’s, although Eric hopes with a sick sense of vindication that they face each other at some point. He hasn’t watched a game of theirs since the group stages, dragged to Casillas’ house to watch it with beers and jeering. He doesn’t say anything when Dele scored; Dele didn’t say a word when he did the same before Christmas.

 

 

 **Winks** : watch us! i checked you haven’t got a game. carabao cup semis, city. it’s a big deal

 

Eric chuckles, agreeing without paying much thought. Tottenham are in with a fighting chance, he's aware of that much, even locked in a 1-2 aggregate with Manchester City. But life is cruel, repeating his mistakes. The whistle blows for extra time, then penalties, the last thing the camera focuses on before it pans out to the lines of anxious men, Dele's face, eyes hard and mouth set.

 

Rice steps up to take the fourth penalty, in the exact same spot, exact same situation as Eric did exactly a year ago. Life truly is cruel. Rice is chewing his lip nervously, eyebrows furrowed. He looks a lot like Eric, and Eric knows every single feeling that'll be strangling him inside. Ederson dives to the left and the ball to the right and -

 

He scores.

 

Eric's replacement scores where Eric failed to.

 

("He's not your replacement, Dier." Dele had reassured him with rolled eyes, as Rice played his position on the pitch and transferred in immediately after he transferred out. "Stop being childish.")

 

Rice scored and Dele is the first to gallop over to him, arms swung around him, head in his neck, sweaty and dishevelled and Eric feels jealousy like vomit in his throat, toxic and disgusting. He hates himself for it but he cannot stop staring, cannot stop the needle of envy stitching across his skin. He feels hot all over, and empty.

 

Tottenham go on to beat Manchester United to the Carabao Cup. Eric's unsurprised when his message of congratulations to Dele goes seen but unreplied to.

 

 

They crash out of the Champions League spectacularly, a 7-2 aggregate loss to Barcelona in the quarter finals, but it's all okay because Tottenham do the same. Eric wants it to hurt more than it does, almost, but weirdly he feels relieved. The focus on the Primeira Liga creates a tunnel vision, a concentration on one goal that was never apparent at Tottenham; cover all your bases was the game plan, games every three days and hours of training in between. Eric exhausts himself just remembering the strain it used to pose.

 

 

He takes painkillers to keep up with the pain continuing to echo through his hip, prescription ended months ago, injury cleared by the physios weeks before that. The clubs and bars hurt too much now, when he can't stop picking up boys with legs too skinny and eyes too dark. The emptiness of his flat is an afterthought. His Mum would probably accuse him of overworking himself; he's so tired he can't remember what it feels like not to be.

 

Missing is a strange feeling. Eric isn't sure how he can miss feelings or moments, like they're something tangible. He's not sure how he can miss Winks' nose scrunching up when he laughs, or the way the sun hits Jan's garden perfectly at exactly 2 in the afternoon during the summer. He's not sure how he can miss the exact way they cook and season the chicken at Hotspur Way, or the insanely grating volume two dozen Englishmen who got lucky in their football boots can make. He's not sure how he can miss a place he never really considered as home, not sure how he can miss the place he lives in now that he always considered as home. Eric's really not sure that home exists.

 

He doesn't know how he doesn't belong anywhere, he doesn't know how he feels dislodged wherever he is. He doesn't know how he can be happy in Porto and still miss everything he left behind. Eric doesn't know what he wants, and he doesn't know what he needs, and he just wants to have somewhere, anywhere, that feels like _his_.

 

Dele made things his. He takes and takes and takes until there's nothing left for him, moving on in search of the new thing, the next thing. Everything is a replacement, everything has to be perfect and everything has to be Dele's. Eric always accepted it; he thinks after a childhood of not belonging he deserves it.

 

 

"Champions!!!" Herrera screeches, a chant growing, all of them crying out.

 

He's locked in place by flailing arms, warm bodies, pounding hearts. Confetti sticks to his tongue and streamers cling to the rasp of his scalp. Champions, Eric thinks giddily, fingering the lines of the medal swinging from his neck, digging his fingers into the muscle of his teammates shoulders, dotting kisses everywhere, laughing, crying a little. Champions.

 

The cup glints in the light, sheer noise reverberating through it. It's gorgeous, Eric thinks, even more beautiful to hold and he kisses it, tastes metal and victory on his lips. The stadium is bouncing, music and light and happiness. Pride is a glorious feeling, Eric decides. It makes it worth it, this sense of rightness, so right it's overwhelming. Champions, Eric laughs, flinging his arms around Chancel's neck, jumping on Felipe's back, lifting Torres off the ground.

 

 **Dele** : champions! congrats diet

 

Eric's smile aches in his cheeks, hot splash of a tear across the keypad as he bits his lips to keep it all locked up. Casillas is attempting to open a thousandth Champagne bottle to tipsy laughter and cheering, blue and white striped kits soaked with sweet fizz and coated in metallic confetti.

 

 **Eric** : Thank you, Delboy

 

*

 _"When we celebrate - no_ if _, it's a_ when _Diet, we'll get a League Cup or something - we should kiss."_

 

_Eric splutters, furtively casting his eyes around the restaurant to check no one's listening. Their table is in the corner, safe from eyes and ears, fortunately. Eric goes pink anyway._

 

_"Why?!" He stutters, cutlery dropped in his plate of fish that he had been very much enjoying until the mischievous glint in Dele's eye flickered too bright._

 

_"It's happened before, no big deal. Stevie G and Alonso after Istanbul? We can be the Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso of Tottenham Hotspur." Dele giggles, clearly pleased with himself. He's rendered Eric speechless, so he supposes he has reason to be._

 

_"You're Gerrard, I assume?"_

 

_Dele rolls his eyes. "Duh, I'm the best midfielder around. Plus, you're Portuguese."_

 

_Dele takes an over-large sip of his wine, as though that's the conversation over, points made and debate finished. Eric stares at Dele incredulously, wanting to say something about Alonso being Spanish, as he winces at the wine around his tongue and pokes at his food again. Dele hates wine, but he'll force himself through anything to impress Eric. The thought makes his chest clench._

 

_"D'you not like your food?" Dele asks pointedly, nodding his chin towards Eric's plate. He sputters back into motion, in complete disbelief of the man he calls a million different things. There's not a single word that covers it all._

*

 

Eric doesn't shove his tongue down any teammate's throat, but a pretty boy who might actually be wearing mascara swallows him down noiselessly in the toilets of the club they're celebrating at. He finishes too quickly, hands threaded through gelled-back blonde hair that's too smooth and leaves a layer over his hands. Within 15 minutes, Eric has stumbled back out to a chorus of jeering and a display of awful dance moves. Drunk and uncaring, he joins in, mouth tasting of champagne and the pretty boy who's already disappeared.

 

 

He doesn't know what to do with himself. Burnt-out like a stubborn candle wick, he patters around Porto for days on end, stopped for photos, plastered on grins and eye-bags. He didn't realise winning was so hard. Season ended, medal carefully displayed on his mantelpiece, a whole summer ahead to recover. Too long and not enough. Eric doesn't know what to do with himself.

 

It rings and rings and rings. Eric's eyes flash with the intensity of sunlight, sunglasses on the kitchen island. He forgot suncream, of course; he's too lazy to remedy either of these things and stretches out instead on the lounger, listening to it ring.

 

"Yep, hello." Dele says and Eric starts.

 

"Hiya." He mutters, voice choked somehow. It's their first phone call since he moved. Eric's forgotten how to do it.

 

"Eric." Dele says evenly. "You alright?"

 

Eric laughs too loudly. "Yeah, mate, I'm excellent. League and all. You?"

 

Eric can sense Dele's nod. "More than. We won a couple of trophies, if you didn't know."

 

Eric sighs and rolls his eyes. "I am aware."

 

Dele laughs then, the glorious helpless giggle that always escapes first through his nose before he can contain it. Eric's stomach glows; he's forgotten so much. The small talk is easy and simple. It's what makes Eric feel safe. He doesn't find out anything glaring, even though everything has changed. Everything and nothing, as it always is.

 

Eventually, he grows antsy, skin prickling too painfully with the beating sun-induced sweat plastered along his chest. He curls his nails into the lounger before giving up, thudding into the kitchen and getting out a chopping board. He fiddles with the knifes in the pot, picks something at random out of the fruit bowl. A mango. He listens to Dele nattering on, content, maybe.

 

"Why did you call?" Dele asks, suddenly, like it only just occurred to him

 

Eric slices the mango down the middle. It caves in slightly, over-ripe. Eric should eat more fruit. He thinks about why he did call and he thinks about Dele. He thinks about best friends and boyfriends. He thinks about teammates and one-night stands. He thinks about Dele. Dele, Dele, Dele. Eric wishes it was so easy.

 

"Eric." Dele asks quietly. "Are you happy?" 

 

Eric stares at the knife in his hand, continuing to stare at the glint of the gleaming metal as he drops it. He looks at the mango chunks he cut up, feels how the syrupy juices are stained into the lines of his palm. They feel too sticky. He looks outside at the purple flowers twining along the balcony, growing wildly and thinks about how he should really trim them. He's gone off pink flowers but the purple is too bright. He's not sure how they've survived so long, the months he's been living here, without him ever considering it. His hands feel too sticky. 

 

There's quiet in the kitchen.

 

*

_ "When we get married, I'll have a purple bouquet." Dele tells him quietly, sunglasses half-falling down his nose in the slip of sweat. _

_ Eric knows you can swallow your tongue, and Dele makes him do so daily. There's a burn under his ribcage, sitting in the space between heart and lungs, and Eric really isn't a romantic, certainly not a hopeless one, but he looks at Dele and he thinks the space belongs to him. It's where he feels everything Dele does and says and wants. He rubs a hand against it. _

_ "You're the bride?" He asks, voice wavering just slightly.  _

_ Dele hums and Eric feels it vibrate through the muscle of his thigh where Dele's head is resting against it. It tickles the short curly hairs at the back of his head against Eric's thigh. "I'll look better in a dress than you." _

_They sit in silence. Nothing happens, just two beating hearts slowing into sync. Like a whisper, Dele presses his lips onto the pale skin of Eric's thigh dusted with little hairs. Eric sighs._ Eu te amo _didn't mean enough as soon as Dele learnt how to say it with a clumsy tongue and no care._ I love you _never really covered it._

*

 

"Eric?"

 

Eric stares at his hands and sees them blurred, sticky and sweet.

* * *

_Are you hungry?_  
_Are you calm?_  
_Are you on a great adventure?_  
_Have we met before?_

 

 


	3. after

_Are you reading?_  
_Did you choose?_  
_Can you see into the future?_

* * *

The air isn't warm or stale, just chilly and damp. Eric shivers subconsciously, shuddering further into his hoodie. His hand tightens around his bag, sweat slicking the handle. He readjusts his grip and thanks the staff, stumbling down the stairs and heading straight for the terminal. It's raining too hard for June.

 

The pitter patter of raindrops is deafening against the roof of the taxi, the driver competing with the weather for dominance, chattering away. Eric grins, leans forward so he's closer to answer all the man's eager questions. A warmth bubbles in his stomach at this man's excitement and enthusiasm as he rambles about England and Tottenham and Porto and everything that belongs to Eric. His eyes in the mirror, flickering up to search for Eric's reactions, are bright and glazed. Eric can't stop grinning.

 

"Cheers!" Eric laughs when the man hands him over his luggage. He watches the delight lighten his face when Eric shakes his hand and claps his back.

 

It's stopped raining, gravel still crunching wetly and squeaking against his trainers as he clambers up the stairs, nodding his head at the cameraman stood in the corner. His beard's grown since people in England might have seen him; his hair's still close-shaven. There's a new scar jagged along his forehead from an over-zealous tackle against Santa Clara. He wonders if people notice these things.

 

"Here comes the champion!" Louise jokes as he rolls through the double doors, rushing forward to wrap him in a hug.

 

Eric rolls his eyes sheepishly, handing the kitmen his boots - the Porto logo imprinted on the plastic seems to glare in the clinical lighting. He hands over his passport, making the small talk necessary and thanking everyone for their congratulations; 'champion' still seems absurd.

 

"Everyone's already through, pretty much." Louise tells him, gesturing towards the door through onto the main building. "Just waiting on a few."

 

Eric nods disjointedly, a few head nods and handshakes and he wanders through, suitcase groaning behind him. There's no one in immediate sight, faint bubble of chatter audible further down the hallway but Eric turns away, towards the lifts. The key card for his room is held between his lips, tongue pressed up against the plastic as he jabs at the buttons and sighs when the doors slide closed.

 

The mirror in the lift is too much to look at with the harshness of the overhead lights. In the slightest of glimpses when he entered, Eric could see two spots dotted around his nose that he didn't know existed. He firmly turns his back away.

 

The corridors at St. George's Park are eerie. They're narrow and empty, soft yellow light and expensive grey carpet, lined with doors and not a person in sight. Eric shrugs, even though there's no one to see, and rolls his suitcase towards his room.

 

"C'mon Eric." He mutters to himself. "Stop fucking around."

 

The room is cold. He twizzles with the thermostat to stop himself from pacing, rolling up the dial far too high before scolding himself and setting it properly. He unpacks his suitcase carefully, neatly and then takes everything back out of it's drawers and cupboards. Dumps it all on the bed and then puts it all away again, folded immaculately. He lines his toiletries on the shelf in the en-suite, playing around with the lid of his aftershave before taking it off, spraying along his neck. The pump spritzes weakly, bottle months old and run-out. If Eric turns the bottle round where it's sitting back on the shelf, the label will say something about Dele and Eric and his birthday, but he leaves it front-facing, so it doesn't.

 

Staring in the mirror does nothing and finally he has to admit defeat. His phone is pulsing on the bed, flashing with message after message and he suddenly feels guilty reading every notification demanding to know his whereabouts. Winks in particular is begging him to appear, and the 8 messages doing so pull too much on Eric's conscience. He picks up his key card and slams the door shut.

 

 

Everyone has already migrated to the common room, bodies spread out across the settees and bean bags, pool cues shoving into chests wildly despite the mere few hours they've been here. Winks leaps up from the arm of the sofa he was perched on, beaming so his freckles bunch up together. Dele is staring at his phone behind him. His thumbs aren't moving.

 

"Champion!" Winks gushes, pulling him over to an armchair.

 

Eric shakes his head fondly. "You too, Winks."

 

Harry shakes his head, fringe flopping a little into his eyes with the vigorous movement. "Carabao Cup isn't a league, is it?"

 

Dele suddenly snorts, a low grunting noise that Eric deems best to ignore. He's not sure how to handle things, terrified by the prospect. He's spent minute after endless minute planning their every interaction, determined to prove to Dele he is happy, he has moved on; Eric doesn't need Dele anymore. He wants Dele to know that.

 

"Carabao Cup is an incredible achievement, Winksy." Dele teases, nudging Winks side with a knobbly elbow. His eyes finally search through Eric's face. He doesn't look any older. Eric wouldn't be surprised if, of all people, Dele is the one to be immortal. It'd make sense.

 

"Long time, no see." Dele smirks, reaching a hand out. Eric gazes at it for a few seconds, unsure, before stretching his own out, watching in something close to awe as Dele performs their handshake. Eric follows along on autopilot, stomach fluttering as he realises he still knows it subconsciously, without even thinking. The brush of Dele's skin against his own makes him tingle.

 

"Missed you, Diet." Dele continues, smirk widening and Eric's short-circuiting, out of his depths, treading through water meters deep and completely opaque. He offers a smile, slow and hopeful.

 

"Missed you too, Delboy."

 

Dele beams.

 

*

_"I love France!" Dele declares excitedly, sunglasses pinched between two fingers and swinging wildly in the sun._

 

_They're walking through Chantilly, the slap of Stones' flip-flops on the concrete a comedic backing to Dele's bouncing energy. Vardy and Cahill have sped up ahead, Vardy deliberately bashing his paper carrier bag into Cahill's legs. England officials are between them, keeping a watchful eye._

 

_"Eat snails, then, Dele." John says bluntly, eyeing him testily for his reaction. Eric snorts._

 

 _"Only if you eat frog's legs." Dele counters, nudging Eric as if to say_ I did good, didn't I _. Eric nods his head in agreement, even though the question was silent._

 

_Dele's eyes are fixed firmly on his shoes. Eric wonders what's catching his attention, ignoring John's rambling about the drawbacks of French cuisine and the pros of French wine. He realises, as Dele carefully measures his steps, that Dele is trying not to step on the cracks. His heart hurts a little with the sudden wave of fondness that whips through him._

 

 _John is unbothered by the lack of input in his monologue, so Eric continues to watch Dele as Dele continues to miss every crack. He watches as he meticulously sets out his feet so he'll miss them, steps too-short and awkward so he stays in the centre of the pavement slabs. If Eric concentrates, under John's one-man conversation, he can hear Dele counting under his breath. He just catches the edges of a hasty_ seventy-two, _before he miscalculates his step and a crack in the pavement runs directly under the sole of his trainer. He curses, shaking his head._

 

_Eric can't stop himself from skimming his knuckles against Dele's at that, desperate to show his affection somehow, before it bursts out of him. Dele looks up, sheepish smile curving his lips, embarrassed at being caught. Eric just grins back, pushing a gentle shoulder into Dele's own and laughing as he lolls away at the minimal contact. He laughs even harder when John stares at them both, offended they interrupted him, or weren't listening in the first place._

 

_Dele rolls his eyes and indulges him. Eric threads a cautious pinkie finger around Dele's own._

*

 

Eric forgets just how much he misses until he's back with what he left behind. People have changed, of course, players retiring and new ones joining, men Eric has to meet as new because he's not a _part_ of it anymore. He sees all the intricacies he'd never pay a thought to if he'd been there to notice them in the first place; the pinkness in Winks' freckled cheeks when Grealish laughs at his jokes or places too many hands on his upper thigh, the distance Wan-Bissaka puts between himself and Sterling (Eric makes a note to ask someone about that because he doesn't miss the awkwardness in their interactions), the wedding ring on Keane's ring finger.

 

He wonders if any of his teammates feel the same about him, but then there's nothing for them to really learn. There's no tan line around his ring finger from a wedding band, no crazy new hairstyle, no new missus. There's no Dele, but all of them know that already. Things _were_ and then very suddenly _weren't_. It's impossible to hide that from those closest to you.

 

 

Eric’s sure a year away from his country has made him love it more. He’s worried, vaguely, that he considers England his when it was always Portugal under his possession; wonders why he’s never happy with what he has.

 

His thoughts are quickly derailed by the fly of the ball towards his chest, bouncing off and controlled by the slick curve of his shin onto his toes. Kane screams for the ball, Eric focuses in on him and not on home and pride and belonging, and boots it. Kane scores. England win.

 

Eric wishes everything was as easy as football sometimes. Most of the time everything is as hard as it.

 

 

Playing for England in England is a strange experience he’s never really had to consider before. The semi-final of the Euro’s would be so much more surreal in a land none of them understand, language their ears reject. It’s easier, living up to peoples' expectations, when you’ve no idea what they are. It’s easier making people proud when the only thing you see after the games is a nameless hotel room with an accented name and not swarms of people just like you. Eric understands why people are patriotic. It’s nice to put your love into something you can convince yourself always loves you back.

 

 

They spend hours together before the final, Gareth determined to keep spirits high and dissolve their nerves, even though the two dozen bodies buzzing with adrenaline and anxiety just seem to transmit the energy between them all the longer they spend bouncing around the common room.

 

Eric watches Jesse and Marcus as their argument escalates. He’s not sure what it’s about, he doubts even they know, but he watches all the same. He watches the lines creased around Jesse’s mouth as he gets more and more animated, the defeat clouding Marcus’s eyes as his flailing hands fail to communicate his point. He watches as they suddenly fall into hysterics, leaning on each other for support, gasping for breath desperately against laughter that could last forever. The argument means nothing.

 

“Mad, aren’t they.” Dele mutters, eyes fixed firmly on his phone. His thumbs are a blur this time, moving rapidly. Eric lets himself get drawn into the steady _tap tap tap_.

 

He hums, unsure of what to reply. They are mad, of course, but they’re happy just as much. Eric knows that, somehow. He can sense it. There’s nothing in the lines of their bodies as they mould together and the softened glint in their eyes when they catch the other that doesn’t say it. Eric doesn’t know anyone who laughs as much as they do together.

 

“Almost as mad as you, Del.” Eric teases, reaching a fingertip across to tickle Dele’s socked foot tucked under his body.

 

Dele eyes him coldly and yanks his foot away, hissing as he sets his phone aside. He pulls his legs up tight to his chest, safe in the lock of his arms. He’s only got shorts on, grey England issued, so Eric can see every bone move across the surface of his legs. His shin rustles under the thin layer of skin, scarred, roughened; vulnerable. Dele nudges his chin into the cradle of his knees.

 

“Nervous, Diet?” Dele mutters, teasing lilt just present enough not to immediately belay the panic sitting underneath. “I suppose you’re used to the pressure. Big boy winner now.”

 

Eric wonders if Dele realises how bitter he sounds. He wonders if maybe he imagines the spite souring his words. Eric wonders if he sounds as biting when he talks to Dele, mind racing through every single part of Dele that hurts him.

 

“Of course I’m nervous.” Eric opts for instead of concentrating on it.

 

Dele nods his head minutely, words muffled where his lips brush his own kneecaps. There’s a pink stripe across the right one, white line running through the centre. It’s healed, pink in its eternity rather than its tenderness. Eric wonders if it’s raised to the touch, or soft. He wonders if it hurt.

 

“I’m not.” Dele declares. Eric isn’t sure what he can say to that.

 

 

"You've got it, Delboy." Eric mumbles as they all sprint into position. He watches the barest of shivers ripple through Dele's body at the brush of breath against his skin. He's shaking, vibrating with anxiety. Eric wants to hold him close, card through his hair, shush him and tell him everything's okay. He only nods jerkily, jogging away and watching the awkward smile Dele plasters onto his face as he goes. He hopes his smile back is encouraging.

 

Time, impossibly, does not exist. Eric can't catch his breath, can't find a moment to calm his heart as it pounds itself bruised in his ribcage. Every step coincides with the hammer of his heart, _thud thud thud,_ that seems to echo through his brain. Nothing will ever reach this moment, and nothing will ever change it. 90 minutes bleeding away quicker than his haggard breathing can keep up with, minute after minute dripping away.

 

Eric sees Dele. 90,000 people surround them, screaming, crying, laughing, cheering. 11 men scream with joy, run and jump at each other, swing from backs, kicking legs and pristine-white smiles. Dele sees Eric. Two hearts stilled into nothingness.

 

Dele collapses. His legs give up, body falling awkwardly as he hunches towards the ground, legs splayed crooked and head hanging too loose from his neck. A ragdoll, puppet cut from its strings. As Eric walks forward, 89,998 other people nothing but a cacophony of noise and blur of shapes he doesn't understand, he can see the sheen of tears collecting under Dele's eyes. He looks so beautiful. Broken like a bird wing.

 

"Dele." Eric says, mouth working around the words, tongue clumsy in them. His ears are rushing, roar of blood he's drowning in. He can't hear his own voice but he knows he spoke. He can feel his teeth clashing as he says it again. Dele does nothing.

 

"Dele." Eric attempts again. He watches his hand as it leaves its place by his side, watches as it reaches towards Dele's head. Eric knows it's numb because he can't feel the tickle of Dele's curls or the heat of his skin. He can't feel anything. He only knows he moved because he can see it there, pale against the darkness of Dele's hair, grass stains green along his knuckles, glittering with sweat. It looks out of place.

 

"Dele." Eric tries, voice a weak trickle. It's breaking under the strain. The tears under Dele's eyes are slipping, hanging off his jaw line. Eric watches as one falls loose, disappearing into the white of his kit. His ears won't stop screaming. He can't hear anything. He can't feel anything, slipping a clumsy hand through the curls bunched on Dele's head just to _know_ , desperate for the irritating tickle against his palm. It feels like nothing, but its a touch.

 

Eric stares at his hand threaded through Dele's hair, stares at the tears slowly making their way down Dele's cheeks, hears the emptiness in his ears, the nothing he can't escape from. He stares until a hand pulls them both up and away, warm and sturdy threaded through their elbows.

 

"It's okay." Gareth whispers, leading them carefully towards the others. Eric doesn't understand anything; he doesn't understand why he feels nothing; he doesn't understand why the loss hits like this. "I'm so proud of you."

 

Eric cries, then, finally. It hurts.

 

*

_"I'm so proud of you, Dele." Eric mumbles, words pressed into his hairline. Dele sobs, near-silent, but Eric can feel the gulp for air and the tremor through his body. "So proud." He whispers, wetness collecting in his eyelashes, clinging to them. He prays Dele can't tell._

 

_"We were so shit." Dele chokes. "I hate it. I hate how shit I was."_

 

_Eric shushes him, squeezes him into his body so harshly Dele squeals a little though the tears, giggling at the ridiculous noise he made. Eric's heart clenches._

 

_"All of us were shocking, Dele. It's nobody's fault."_

 

_Dele shakes his head jerkily, trying to escape Eric's grip with it. When he surfaces, his eyes are hard as they stare into Eric's own. They're glossy with tears, whites of his eyes so white, dark of his iris so dark. He looks down at Eric's parted lips for a flicker of a second before his gaze resorts itself. He smiles quietly, sadly._

 

_"You're too nice to me, Diet." Voice already recovering, walls rebuilding. "It was fucking Iceland."_

 

_Eric ruffles his hair, desperate to keep Dele the way he is now. The shutters are closing, mask slowly sliding back into place but Eric knows how to work through that. He knows the jokes to make and the compliments to smother him with. He knows the right level of touches, hugs and handshakes and shoves. He knows how to make Dele feel like the most important thing, pathetically early into their friendship, because Dele might be the most important thing, maybe. Eric knows Dele, but only a version of him, and he knows that too. The shatter in the glass of his eyes, Eric isn't sure how to repair._

 

_"Come back stronger, Del. When have England ever gone down without a fight?"_

 

 _(When have_ you _ever gone down without a fight?)_

*

 

Eric stares at his knuckles, mesmerised by the colour of them. The plum blurs into welts of red, faded blue ringing around the blobs of bruise. He shakes his hand out, fingers flexing and hisses at the sting as his skin is manipulated, bones pushing up under the surface. The crust of blood unpicks a little, wetness of it starting to seep through the cracks.

 

He watches fascinated as the water streaks red, swirling around the base of the sink before sliding down the plug hole. It stings in their breakage of skin but it looks cleaner now, less angry. The purpling, echo of blue seems starker now it doesn't have to compete with red, bright against the whiteness of his skin. He sighs and pats it dry carefully with a towel.

 

The wall hardly looks worse for wear. There's a little dent, tinge of red to the cream paint, barely noticeable stain of his blood where he turned in his frustration. It makes it easier to deal with, no need to inform management and have a fuss caused, but it irks him that the wall made it out unharmed.

 

It took 11 hours for Eric to break. It's early morning now, light bright and unapologetic through the window Eric didn't bother to draw the curtains on. Gareth kept them gathered in the common rooms until well past midnight, determined to keep them under his eye where they could attempt to laugh or cry with each other. Eventually, Pickford's threat to break Trent's legs drove them all back to their rooms, Gareth watching them go, worry lines frighteningly stark. Eric's been alone since then, pacing, lying on the floor, staring into the mirror, showering twice. The punch at the wall hurt his pride more than anything else.

 

He starts when the doorbell rings, too busy staring at the wall and wondering when this became his response. He knows before he opens it who he'll see, but it's no less shocking. His breath stutters out in a hurry. Dele shoves past him, eyes puffy and bruised with lack of sleep. His nose is wet and he won't stop sniffing.

 

"Hello." Eric says and he's mindblown, desperately pleased that his voice is so level. Even and sensible, the Eric Dier he always has been.

 

Dele's smirk is weak, lacking in any bite. "Alright."

 

Silence blankets them as they process the greeting because nothing is quite alright. Dele sighs, laughs sarcastically. "How's life treating you?"

 

Eric snorts, edging towards Dele. He wonders what would happen if he reached out a hand, a single finger. He wants a touch, the barest suggestion of one, anything to keep them safe. He misses the warmth of Dele's skin.

 

"Oh, you know." Eric jokes pathetically. Dele thumps onto his bed, defeated. Eric sits carefully next to him.

 

"I really thought we had it." Dele mutters viciously. "Fucking Mbappé."

 

Eric nods. There's nothing really more he can say. He thought they had it too, he was convinced they did. He could taste the silver of the trophy, feel the coolness of the metal against his lips. He hadn't really stopped to consider that they might _not_ have it, and that was probably the mistake.

 

"The World Cup is only two years away." Eric reasons, determined to be the Eric Dele always knew. He doesn't say that he fears he won't see the next World Cup, fears that his England call-ups will dissipate in the coming months, disappear completely, maybe, with the passing of his birthday. The future is nothing more than tomorrow, and Dele is here today.

 

Dele sighs, lips pursed. "Bet Portugal would win it. If things were different from the start."

 

"Dele -"

 

"Maybe better that way." 

 

“I needed a change.” Eric says lamely, scuffing his trainers against the carpet where his feet are dangling. Dele hisses in his frustration.

 

“Then join a book club! Get a tattoo!”

 

“I hate tattoos, Del, you know that.”

 

Dele glares at him, eyes a wildfire of anger and hatred, if Eric truly focuses. He decides not to, because he can’t let himself see that. His stomach is tied in knots impossible to undo, churning around in the pit of his gut and burning his insides in a red rash.

 

“You’re such a coward.” Dele says, harsh and blunt. “Just fucking off.”

 

“Actually, Dele.” Eric mutters. He’s close to bending over double with the pain in his stomach, trying to swallow down the sick rising up his throat. “You don’t get to tell me that. It was your decision. If you wanted me, you should’ve said.”

 

I would’ve stayed for you, Eric thinks. I’d do anything for you.

 

Dele screeches, sound rattling through Eric’s eardrums. It stings. His fists are clenched, edging forwards and Eric’s nervous, suddenly, that Dele might swing a punch. Dele’s knuckles are sharp.

 

“Don’t say that.” Dele pushes through his gritted teeth. “Don’t put this on me.”

 

Eric almost wants Dele to punch him. He imagines it, the sickly thick sludge of metallic red dripping onto his tongue, mouth heavy with the taste of it. Crunch of bone and ache of a bruise, permanently changed because of Dele, purple for weeks.

 

“You can be selfish, Dele.” Eric whispers, lump sitting in the base of his throat, ache of it radiating through his Adam’s Apple. Every desperate gulp of air angers it. “Really selfish.”

 

Eric watches Dele’s fist as his fingers clench tighter into his palm, prepared for the blow, unclench as he breaths out through his nose, veins in his arms pulsing with the strain. They’re popping out of the skin, stark under its smoothness. His fist remains by his side. Eric’s nose still burns, suddenly, with the phantom punch.

 

The punch never comes. Eric picks at the grazes along his own knuckles instead.

 

 

Porto has changed when he gets back. Everything has changed, Eric feels. The hug Gareth gave him before he hurried into his taxi was tighter than he can ever remember his hugs being. He couldn't help himself from tucking his head into Gareth's neck, awkward with his added height, embarrassed at his desperation. Gareth only smiled into his hair and squeezed the nape of his neck. Reassuring; safe. Eric trusts him to set things right.

 

His knuckles have healed. His heart still hurts thinking about Dele. The loss still sits in the base of his stomach, refusing to budge, a part of him like he wasn't sure was possible. They both are now, World Cup defeat and Euro's loss a razor blade in his gut. They come and go, knife-edge blunt some days and sharpening others. That's life.

 

He sits with Clay on his settee he's never bothered to replace, cursing himself for its uncomfortableness, for hours when he's unpacked his things and set himself right. Sometimes, he'll make himself a cup of tea, floral teabags he doesn't particularly like because milk abroad doesn't taste right, and sip it as he strokes along Clay's head. Clay whines lazily, basking in the attention, the surety of his presence enough to settle Eric's rabbiting heartbeat.

 

Eric sighs as shadows start to draw themselves across his living room floor, night coming in. He knows it's muggy outside, air clogging and thick with the heat of a Portuguese summer. He can't see the flowers around his balcony, can barely visualise them. He knows they were purple.

 

 *

_“Dele.” Eric slurs, fumbling a hand to grasp at Dele’s forearm. “Del.”_

_Dele giggles through his nose, reaching his arm out to make things easier for him. This is the wrong way round, Eric drunkenly fawning over Dele who’s sober and grinning. He looks very pleased with himself._

_“How can I help?” He asks cheekily, obviously choosing to ignore the way Eric is clumsily rubbing his thumb along his bare forearm._

_“You’re so.” Eric starts, stumbling over himself. “You’re so pretty, Del, gorgeous, really.” If he wasn’t so shameless, Eric would turn pink._

_Dele smirks, sliding behind him to prop his weight up better. Eric is feeling a little wobbly; he only realises when he can feel the surety of Dele behind him._

_“I’m gonna get a tattoo for you.” Eric tells him, suddenly somber, nodding his head seriously. “Little purple flowers. Pretty. Like you.”_

_Dele laughs openly now, lips sealed in an attempt to contain it but it still escapes, a stream of sound that Eric feels affronted by. He slaps half heartedly at Dele’s arm looped through his own._

_“You hate tattoos.” Dele reminds him, still laughing. “You’ve always said you hate them.”_

_Eric shakes his head frustratedly, annoyed that Dele just isn’t getting it. “I’ll do it. For you.” His voice is so serious, it pains him a little to hear, even drowned in expensive vodka._

_Dele just shakes his head, swooping in to pepper a kiss against Eric’s bottom lip. Eric opens his mouth clumsily and he feels a huff of Dele’s breath in laughter against his face before Dele kisses him properly, enough to make Eric feel lightheaded._

*

 

Eric can see faces in the wood of his wardrobe, opposite his bed. The rings in the surface are people, darkened beech wood twisted mouths, squiggling lines faces distorted beyond repair. They only come out in the dark of night, staring at Eric as he tries to concentrate on Clay's breathing to lull him into a doze, but the faces are stronger. Eric knows his eyes are only fooling him, darkness and lack of sleep and whirring thoughts creating it. He's so tired.

 

His telly plays a Portuguese soap opera on repeat. The theme tune ingrains itself on the surface of Eric's brain. He has a documentary about Karl Lagerfeld downloaded but the remote control is hanging from Clay's mouth as he chews at it, volume changing randomly when his teeth nick the wrong button. Nobody has messaged him since he got back. He's bored of nameless white dress shirts.

 

Eric watches the rapid-pace slanging match between a heavily pregnant curly-haired women and her lumbering excuse for a boyfriend. Clay perks up in interest as the yelling grows louder, Eric chuckling to himself and scratching along his ears. He thinks about failure and winning and parallel universes where his life is normal. The woman's mascara is streaming down her face, tears clinging to her black spider webs. The boyfriend has short, dark, tightly curled hair. His eyebrows are bushy and unkempt, no slit slicing through the black hairs. His teeth are too white.

 

*

_“It was never gonna work, Eric.” Dele tells him, face contorted in something Eric can’t quite understand. It’s either anger or turmoil, but it’s ugly and doesn’t suit Dele’s face. There’s too many lines pulling it into something malicious and cruel._

_Eric doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he never knows what to say, with Dele. Sometimes the right thing is the wrong thing, sometimes it’s better to say nothing at all. Eric doesn’t know what to say and Dele is clearly livid about that._

_“We’re not perfect, or whatever you wanna think Eric. It can’t work, we’re kidding ourselves. We’re men in the Premier League. You’re naïve.”_

_Eric wants to argue. They’re not perfect, of course not; no one ever is. But they’re imperfect in a way Eric wants to keep forever, locked in his heart, just for the two of them. They fit perfectly together in Eric’s bath, just enough room for the two of them; Dele’s clothes that hang off his shoulders cling to Eric like they were made for him; Eric eats the cola bottles and Dele hates cola bottles; Dele makes Eric happy and that’s the only thing he ever sees._

_“We’ve made it work for this long.” Eric reasons, voice so small. He sounds too helpless, defeated already, caught out of his depths._

_“No, we haven’t.” Dele argues back, hands starting to fly in his frustration. “We’re not a normal couple, Eric, we never can be.”_

_Eric really doesn’t know what to do. Dele’s words dig at him, an incessant stab that lodges right between the soft space between his ribs. It twists, wound gaping open. Dele just keeps on twisting._

_“I love football more.” Dele says, and he’s imploring, begging Eric to understand, angry and lost and desperate._

_“Do you not love me?” Eric asks pathetically, knowing before he sees it shatter across Dele’s face that it’s a low blow, the lowest he could muster, a swinging hit right under his knees, knocking Dele over. His stomach drops a little. He’s so stupid._

_Dele’s eyes are cold now, face hard and impassive. “Not enough.” And the emptiness in his voice, expressionless and robotic, hurts so much. Dele’s eyes are rotting, dead, barrier Eric had carefully chipped away at repairing itself in Eric’s few words. He doesn’t know anyone else who can shut themselves away quite as well as Dele. He doesn’t know anyone else quite like Dele._

_“You’re my best friend.” Eric says, desperate, clawing at the nothingness he has left._

_Dele’s smile is cold and blank, a flash of startlingly white teeth that burns. He shakes his head slowly, like Eric is stupid, and maybe he is; maybe he is naive and maybe he is foolish. Maybe Eric was ridiculous for ever letting himself love Dele._

_He never expected life to hurt this much._

*

 

 "Can me and Dele come out for a few days? Deal with the loss and that, spend some time with you. How's Clay by the way? I miss him, great dog-"

 

Eric chuckles, shredding lettuce finely for his salad. Clay hums contentedly on the kitchen floor and Eric wonders if his ears are burning.

 

"Winks, hang on." Eric laughs, Harry's enthusiasm infectious. "Yeah, of course you can come."

 

Eric wonders if he'll get his bruises after all, nose twinging at the thought. He stares at the pale pinkness of his right hand knuckles, marred by his stupidity 11 hours after the most painful loss of his life. He shakes his hand out, phantom pain of it tingling up his arm, settling in the crook of his elbow. Eric feels it's rather counterintuitive to be so terrified by the prospect of seeing the person you miss the most.

 

Harry's shrill ring of ecstatic laughter is enough to quieten the doubts for a while. He listens to everything Harry's been up to since the Euro's, his new Love Island conquest, his new car he doesn't know half the capabilities of, his night out with Grealish. Eric can hear him growing steadily pink as his words quicken, rambling happily, and he smiles.

 

When they hang up, Eric laughs for close to a minute. He kneads the heels of his palms into his eyes roughly, blinking against the dots it draws across his vision and sighs. Why does everyone assume Eric knows what he's doing when Dele's always held the strings in a tight grip. The fraying threads he's cautiously trimmed away at are pulling at the base, and Eric wonders if maybe he's sticky-tapping them.

 

 

His childhood summer holidays were spent in this villa. Eric would watch children's programmes on VHS in the room Dele's sleeping in, plopped in front of a thick block telly with crackling sound quality and fuzzy picture. Blonde hair tufted and rigid with chlorine, skin sticky and thick with suncream. Mid afternoon streaming through the wooden-shuttered windows, lazy sound of crickets and breeze through the quiet. 

 

He learnt to swim one summer when he was 5 in the pool Dele's flailing around in. His yellow armbands had punctured, nicked on the edge of a tile, and his older brother had laughed, hand supporting his tummy to keep him afloat as he kicked his little legs against the surface of the water, desperately trying to move. By home time two weeks later, Eric could doggy paddle across the shallow end, toes skimming the floor when he could stretch his knees out, grateful for the support. His Mum clapped him and filmed it on a camcorder, laughter fizzing through it, picture slow and sluggish like a memory.

 

Eric would wander around the patio protecting the house, and the bushes of bright pink and purple flowers, counting lizards until he got bored and decided to count birds instead. He counted 37 lizards one summer, convinced every one was unique. He sat, and with his younger sister, named them all, and picked his favourite. Pablo was his favourite, the skinny one that would scamper away as soon as Eric gasped in his happiness at finding him.

 

Eric watches a lizard patter across the tiles now. It's fat, and slow, lazy in the harsh sun and silence. Harry and Dele stumble out of the patio doors from the kitchen, chattering through their yawns, and it suddenly sprints. Eric sees it slip through a gap in the leaves of a yellowing hedge.

 

"Did you know, if a lizard loses its limbs it regrows them?" Eric asks, wincing against the scrap of metal on tile as Dele and Harry pull their chairs out.

 

Harry makes an interested humming noise, picking at the fruit Eric's brought out for the patio table, nicking Eric's glass of orange juice without asking. Dele is lathering himself in suncream, skin shining with it. Eric can see the spots he misses on his back but bits his tongue against the offer to help him.

 

"Yeah, I knew that." Dele shrugs, scrunching his nose up against the greasiness clinging to his hands. "Happened in the Amazing Spider-Man."

 

Eric barks with laughter and rolls his eyes, staring back off out to the sea in the distance as Winks joins in excitedly, agreeing with Dele wholeheartedly and debating on the merits of the different Spiderman's. They've just decided on Tom Holland when Eric feels a toe nudge his own, nail sharp at the corner and digging into his skin. He glances up carefully and Dele's looking at him. Not smiling, not smirking. Just looking. He presses their feet together for the barest hint of a second before swinging his legs under his chair, turning his attention back to Winks.

 

 

"Why don't you sleep?" Dele mutters, slap of his feet across the cool flooring alerting Eric of his presence before he decides to speak. Eric glares at the clock; it's 3AM.

 

"I do." He argues, knowing his lie is marked into the heaviness under his eyes. He's exhausted.

 

Dele sighs, collapsing onto the settee next to Eric. His knee brushes Eric's just barely. He's only in boxers, the villa too clammy for anything else and he smells of aloe vera and shower gel. Mint shower gel.

 

"You smell of aloe vera." Eric mumbles, leaning his head back against the headrest of the sofa. It's that ugly peach colour you can only  find in out-of-date Mediterranean villas, fabric cover worn and faded. It's comfortable, softer and squishier than his settee in Porto.

 

Dele hums. "You need some."

 

Eric eyes squint open enough to watch Dele gesture towards his nose and shoulders. They're red raw, he knows from looking in the mirror earlier, tender and stinging. His shoulders have already started peeling. He swears he used to tan and not burn.

 

"Why don't you sleep?" Dele niggles again, knee brushing against Eric's deliberately now. 

 

Nights abroad are never as dark as nights at home. The light falls differently, warmth and glint of moonlight making everything hazy blue rather than thick black. Eric can see the waves through the patio doors, gentle movement of the Portuguese coastline. He thinks about the beach at 3 in the morning, sand cool on the soles of his feet, water icy cold as the heat of the night clings to him thickly. He thinks about the bats that flutter around at night when everyone's sleeping and decides maybe not.

 

Dele sighs, changing tactics. "Can we talk about why you're not happy?"

 

Only Dele could make that sound brisk and business-like, devoid of any emotion and only simple fact that needs to be addressed. Inside, its too dark to really make anything out other than the basic details in Dele's face; Eric can't see what's in his eyes, only two black dots in a pool of gleaming whiteness, looking at him.

 

"I'm fine." Eric says, easily, because he is. 

 

Dele hisses, frustrated. " _Fine_ isn't happy, Eric."  

 

Eric feels the lump balling in his throat, sitting on his windpipe and making it ache. He attempts to swallow it down but that only hurts, pulls tears closer to the surface of his eyes. Eric thinks about the engraving on his watch that still tickles the hairs along his arms three years after; he thinks about empty cologne bottles and Christmas Chinese takeaways and French radio stations. He thinks about Dele but that doesn't work because Dele's right _here_.

 

"That's unfair, Del." Eric mumbles. "You can't pretend to care now."

 

Dele lets out an irritated sob, and Eric knows without looking that his fists are bunched up. He's not nervous that Dele will throw a punch; not because he doesn't care if he does, doesn't care if it hurts but because he trusts he won't. Dele isn't like that, and Eric knows it. There's a lot he doesn't, but Eric knows Dele better than the scars on his own body. Just like scars, he never really knows. The origin of them could be anything; Dele could be anyone.

 

"I was angry." Dele tells him, through gritted teeth. "I was so fuckin' angry, I still am, Euro's and you and losing and I was just pissed off."

 

Eric hears no apology in his words, only defensive excuses, deflecting, empty. He does hear the defeat as Dele sighs, kneading his knuckles into his thighs as he attempts to remain calm. Eric is swallowing manically against the ball of tears pulling at his throat, bruising his body bloody.

 

They sit in silence for a length of time Eric doesn't know. He knows he starts to doze off to the gentle hum of Dele's breathing, too-familiar, whilst the sky reflecting off the sea is still velveteen blue.

 

 

Eric watches Dele and Harry sprint across the grass and throw themselves onto the lilo innocently floating on the surface of the pool. They next try to stand on it, spiralling into the water before they get a chance to raise off their knees. Eric's read the same page of his book more times than he can possibly count. Dele's frantic giggling is too big a distraction.

 

"Oi, Diet!" Dele cries after a resounding splash of water. "Get over here. Mr. Boring."

 

Eric sticks his middle finger up and they both laugh, splashing each other with water, but Eric sets his book down after marking the page and slips into the water. It's a little chilly, takes his breath away for a few seconds with the shock before Dele grabs his pink and peeling shoulders and dunks him immediately under the water. When he resurfaces, spluttering and bleary-eyed he sees Dele and Harry grinning, laughing so loud, and he grins, too.

 

 

"I'm not going to apologise." Dele tells him, over dinner in a sweet local restaurant with lovely house red wine, when Winks has nipped to the toilets.

 

Eric pops another piece of bread into his mouth, swallowing it carefully before he replies. "I know." Because he does.

 

Dele nods firmly, like the subject is cleared, finally. The thought makes Eric laugh, chuckle escaping him before he can contain it. He doesn't miss the suspicious stare Dele gives him when Winks slides back into his seat.

 

 

Eric thinks about a lot. He thinks about Porto and England and the future. He thinks about home and its importance and he thinks about a house and the people in it. His eyes are still heavy with lack of sleep, struggling to manage a few hours without the reassuring snuffle of Clay's breathing beside him. He's covered in new scars he didn't have before he left England, but maybe he'd get them anyway, eventually. He thinks about winning, but not with the team he always thought he would lift a trophy with and he thinks about losing with a team he can never give up. He thinks about Winks and his frightening enthusiasm and passion and drive. He thinks about Dele and apologies and he doesn't know what he's going to do.

 

 

They watch in bemused silence as Harry finds himself swimming far out of his depths with the girl grinding determinedly against him. Dele huffs a little breath of his laughter out through the broken seam of his lips and in his drunken lull, Eric thinks the noise sounds like happiness.

 

Dele's tongue is stained by the brightness of his cocktail, blue sugar syrup collected at the bottom and tinging the underside of his lip violet. When Eric tells Dele with a delighted wheeze of laughter, Dele sticks his tongue out madly like he's trying to see for himself, falling into a bout of giggles as he realises his stupidity. He laughs for so long Eric can feel it warming his blood, feel it sitting in his chest, in that spot between ribcage and heart. It flutters, the feeling, flutter that's like the relief of a goal and adrenaline of a win and security of _eu te amo_. 

 

" _Tenho saudades tuas_." Eric whispers, Portuguese hoarse with his throat raw from laughter. _I miss you_.

 

Dele's eyebrows raise, mouth quirking in a funny smile. He breathes through his nose, slowly, leaning his head back against his seat. The undone buttons on his white shirt allow for the ridges in his stomach to catch the shadow, skin beautiful in the low sunlight. His tattoos crawling up his side peek out just barely. Eric hates tattoos but he can't bring himself to hate these. There's roses in the swirl of odd, pointless shapes and objects. Maybe it has meaning to Dele.

 

Dele's head is still tilted back, hand firmly around his cocktail, paper umbrella bobbing with the vague vibrations of his hand. His lips are pink, bitten pink, dry and peeling. Eric wants to tell him to use lip balm. He bites his tongue, presses his lips together and finds his own lips cut into each other, skin jagged-edged.

 

"I know." Dele mumbles, and Eric wonders if maybe he really does.

 

 

Dele insists that he be in charge of the car stereo as they drive along the Portuguese coastline, car roof down. Winks is still with his hook-up, texting a haphazardly worded message to them both in the early hours of the morning. Eric and Dele had laughed at it over breakfast, Dele almost snorting his orange juice back out his nose.

 

Dele’s playing old-school Drake turned up too loud. The heat sits on their skin like it’s tangible, speed of the car sending a pleasant breeze over them both. To their right there’s an endless expanse of holographic turquoise, moving lazily in the light wind. To their left is walls of cliff rock and tufts of dry plants growing through the cracks. Sweet villas crawling in wall flowers dot along the landscape every now and again.

 

They’ve stopped a few times, swimming in little coves and bays they find deserted and gorgeous. The water is so clear, turning Eric’s whole body blue. Staring down at his feet as he treads water shows shoals of fish darting in every direction. Dele giggles delightedly when he notices, swimming after the particularly big fish like he has any chance of catching them. Eric’s teeth ache from how wide he’s been smiling.

 

It’s the lethargic haze of mid afternoon now, and they’re driving. Dele’s arm brushes against Eric’s every now and again, when he’s not thinking before he reaches for his phone plugged into the aux cord. It sends goosebumps racing across Eric’s skin.

 

Eric starts to laugh as the next song plays.

 

“C’mon!” Dele giggles. “You know this song. Sing.”

 

Eric gives Dele a warning glare, tapping his hand against his steering wheel despite himself.

 

“I haven’t listened to this song since I was obsessed with it.” Eric says absentmindedly, pulling the car around a tight corner in the mountain roads.

 

“You were absolutely mad about it.” Dele agrees teasingly, turning up Don’t by Bryson Tiller with a cheeky grin on his face.

 

“It’s a good song!” Eric argues defensively, humming along without really wanting to. Dele looks absolutely delighted with himself.

 

“If you say so.” He smiles, meeting Eric’s eyes in his car mirror.

 

If things weren’t ever so slightly different, Eric could think they’re 3 years ago, driving through Portugal with their hands held over the gearstick because Eric was lovesick. Bantering each other off, listening to music as the sun beat down on their scalps, sea glittering. It can’t be 3 years earlier, though, because they’re not holding hands, and they’ve got a dozen more scars, barest lines of age starting to wear in.

 

Eric’s still lovesick. He doubts he ever won’t be.

 

*

_“What are we gonna do when we get old?” Dele asks absentmindedly, fiddling with his shoe laces._

_“Take your feet off the seat, Del, c’mon.”_

_Dele sticks his tongue out and slides his trainers off Eric’s front car seat, brushing an impatient hand against the faint footprints he left. Eric sighs._

_“Why’d you ask?”_

_Dele looks thoughtful for a few seconds, staring out the window at London blurring by. When he turns back towards Eric, his mouth is already open, ready to report. Eric smiles._

_“Important to think about, innit. In our industry.”_

_Eric shrugs. He’ll never tell Dele but he thinks about it all the time. He thinks about the house they’re going to buy together, one in London and one in Portugal, the dogs they’re going to have and the happiness they’re going to feel. They’ll hold hands when they go to the shop and Eric will kiss Dele’s forehead when they’re waiting for their coffee and Dele will say I love you like he means it._

_“You’ll be like Becks, I guess.” Eric suggests, watching for Dele’s reaction._

_His eyebrows raise in what Eric guesses is faint approval. “Think you might be right.” He replies, convinced and Eric loves that Dele laughs when he does, light and forever._

_“I’ll do coaching or something. Youth players.”_

_Dele nods his head, back to staring out the window. His fingertips are drawing patterns in the condensation collected there. Eric watches, trying to decipher them but they’re too small and bleed into one and another as soon as he moves his fingers away._

_“I can see that. You’d be a good teacher.” Dele mutters, drifting his finger tip in dipping curves and smiling at his work before avidly tracing the journey of a singular raindrop._

_Eric nods his thanks, biting his tongue as he sees the little love hearts dripping into a line along the bottom of the window, drawn with a clumsy finger tip._

*

 

Eric watches Dele as he dances. He’s so beautiful, Eric will never get his head around it. He’s never noticed the little things in someone so easily before, but he knows that there’s a specific vein running down his left bicep that stands under the skin when he strains, and he knows that Dele’s eyelashes are long and curled and feathery. He knows that despite the muscle, Dele’s still soft and pretty and always warm, and his skin smells of mint shower gel and cologne. It only tastes like skin, warm and smooth, but it’s beautiful under his lips.

 

Dele can’t dance but Eric watches him anyway. A few cocktails have dragged Dele’s inhibitions away, happily dancing with Winks and a group of girls mooning over them. The barest tendrils of jealousy tug at his stomach, but every few minutes Dele’s gaze snaps up to centre on Eric, just to check. Eric doesn’t think he has anything to be jealous about.

 

It’s a cooler night than it has been, wind brisker as it whips around their ankles. They’ve only a few days left, before it’s back to their own lives in their own countries with their own people. Eric’s only 26 and yet the age feels ancient. Dele’s 24 and Eric never thought he’d see that ever. Dele is perpetually 20, bright and bouncing, and the evidence of even his ageing pulls on Eric’s heart.

 

He’s only drinking wine tonight, no cocktails. Dele only really likes cocktails, the expensive ones with mad names that are an even madder colour. He likes blue ones a lot, and red ones. Vodka over gin but rum before any of them. He’d bought Dele a Piña Colada earlier and laughed at the disgust across his face. _A Piña Colada for Delboy_ , he’d chuckled, Harry just as entertained by his joke as he’d been, and Dele had just glared at him, prodding at the pieces of pineapple as his foot crept up Eric’s thigh.

 

Eric can still see the tell-tale signs of Dele’s drunkenness. His body stretches out, almost, lithe and relaxed, body rolling easily. His neck is loose as he rests his head on Harry’s shoulder and Eric knows they’re giggling together, even though he’s sat far away from the dance floor and can’t hear anything over the music playing. He can always hear Dele’s laugh.

 

He’s dancing more wildly, no care for making himself look as good or as inviting and simply doing it because he wants to, laughing at himself and then at Winks as they compare their dance moves between sips at cocktails slopping out of their glasses onto the already sticky floor.

 

Eric finds himself slipping towards them, even though wine drunk is lazy and sunshine, rather than dancing and bright lights. He wants to dance. He feels himself laugh, Dele threading an arm around his waist and pulling him close, moving him for himself. Strings in his grasp.

 

Tears might be rolling down Eric’s face from how much he’s laughing, stomach aching with it, any words he attempts drowning in the chuckles he can’t let go. Dele is still dancing, slower now, beside him, giggling too. Straw caught between his lips, body so close.

 

Eric wants to ask about the fake-tanned man on the dance floor a year ago, and he wants to ask about winning with Tottenham, and he wants to ask about birthdays and growing up and whether Dele’s staying or going and he can feel his tongue loosening, words joining together in his head and preparing to be asked, but Dele beats him to it.

 

His straw falls from his mouth, flattened and chewed by the bluntness of his teeth. His hazy eyes are frighteningly focused and he’s staring at Eric like he can see something. Eric wonders if maybe it’s the scar cut into his forehead and he raises a hand to it, prepared to tell the whole story but, again, Dele cuts him off.

 

“I wish you hadn’t left.” Dele says, and it’s quiet and honest, a little bit like a _sorry_ and a little bit like an _I miss you_ whilst being nothing of either.

 

Eric shrugs, shakes his head, stares at his shoes. He doesn’t say anything and he supposes Dele wasn’t expecting him to, because slowly they begin laughing and dancing again, even though Eric’s feet ache, and his mouth is stale, and he wishes he hadn’t left too.

 

 

Eric spent hours rock-pooling as a child, hopping across rocks, journeying as far out as he dared, balancing himself as he attempted to find the little pools in the cracks. His rock-pooling shoes were always bright pink, plastic bucket blue, cheap net green. His favourite find was crabs, the small kind that skimmer across surfaces and can escape from you in the blink of an eye. He'd collect them in his bucket, filled to the brim with sea water, and stare into his homemade fish tank, naming the fish and lucky crab until he worried their families might be missing them and put them all back where he found them. Watched the crabs scamper away again into the dark cracks in rock, shells rustled.

 

"If paps catch us doing this, it'll be so embarrassing." Winks whines, prodding his toes against the edge of the rock in his rock-pooling shoes. They do make both him and Eric look faintly ridiculous, Dele foregoing them after a minor argument between the three of them on their effectiveness.

 

Dele's flip-flops keep getting caught in the crevices of each rock, suction of water when they find a pool slipping them off his feet. He hasn't stopped whinging about it, collapsing into a dramatic pile when the edge of a barnacle cuts into the skin of his big toe. Eric curses him for the swirl of red he's releasing into some fishes' home, and pulls him aside to wipe it clean with his towel. The stain of Dele's blood dots along the edge of it, stark against the white only if you know where to look.

 

"Thank you." Dele mutters sheepishly. Eric nods his head.

 

* 

_"Thank you, Eric." Dele whispers, and its quiet and pushed into his pounding heart, words muffled against the material of Eric's t-shirt._

_Eric's heart shatters in his chest, kissing across Dele's forehead until he feels he overdoes it, overwhelmed by how much love and affection and pride one body can contain, amazed that one person can take up so much of everything. Dele never says thank you._

_Teardrops cling like jewels to Eric's eyelashes as he breathes heavily through his nose until his breathing regulates, heart pieced back together with the superglue of Dele's broken chuckles and press of lips to his chest._

_"Thank you." He mutters again, later, into the corner of his pillow when he thinks Eric's asleep. Eric's chest aches. Dele never says thank you._

*

 

Eric closes his eyes against the sun that's rippling through the cover of his eyelids. He can still see it. Feel the flashes of light across his pupils. His nose is healing, skin tender but new, clean. A little pink and a little sore to the touch. His toes flex in the shiver that wracks through him, sudden bluster of breeze drifting over the slowly drying drops of water clinging to his skin.

 

He feels fingertips against the back of his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, until his forehead aches with the strain. The fingertips grow bolder, warm, not quite soft but definitely not rough, palm sliding under the curl of his fingers. Their palms join together, slowly. Grip loose, but Eric can still feel every individual line running through the palm against his own. The ridges of a healing graze, the creases of a patch of dry skin, a lazy smudge of suncream. His fingers flex just barely, index finger tapping against the knuckles. Dele squeezes back. Firm and safe.

 

Eric turns his head to the side, eyes smarting against the sudden light. When the spots clouding his vision fade, he can see Dele. Dele's head is turned to the side, eyes open and quiet. Bright and wide, full of everything and nothing just as it always is. He smiles at Eric. Eric sighs, breath caught in itself.

 

The hand held in his grips a little tighter. Eric smiles right back.

* * *

_Are you listening?_  
_Are you scared?_  
_Will you know it when you see it?_  
_Have we met before?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i'm sorry it's maybe not a happy ending so much as a hopeful one but i hope you enjoyed all the same
> 
> (ill probably write another chapter or do a follow-up one shot for a happier conclusion)

**Author's Note:**

> it feels so wrong posting this when spurs did what they did last night 
> 
> obviously the details in this are for plots sake! i don't think eric will move this summer and if he did, i don't think it would be to porto
> 
> i decided to make a tumblr so if you have any prompts, i'll happily take requests! @cm0nbabyblue


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